


Bed Of Thorns

by xantissa



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, memory of rape and torture, self mutiliation, very old story so be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 47,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is forced to take a Challenge, that leaves him in a strange state of mind and darkness threatens to overwhelm him. Is Duncan able to help? Is he even going to try, especially since the friendship they once shared, doesn't exist anymore? And maybe there is something more between them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Joe's POV 

Now, I can tell you this; I never expected something like this happen. Especially not one of those sunny, peaceful afternoons when you can just sit lazily and enjoy your life. 

There I was, standing behind the bar, trying to call one of my suppliers that had been late with the shipment again and cursing under my breath, when Methos sat at one of the tables in the corner, drinking his beer and reading some old looking books. He did that a lot. Came here and spent time in the quiet. Before all that shit with Duncan hit the fan, they both would come here and spend some time drinking an obscene amount of my beer. But after the Horseman, Kirstin, Byron, Richie and finally O'Rourke- their friendship just wasn't the same. 

As if it was some kind of unspoken agreement, they would appear in my bar at different times, and different days. But I thought they would work it out, as always. The two stubborn, pig headed Immortals just needed some time, maybe more than we as mortals would, but still…

But the day Methos came in and paid his bill himself, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

You could think that it's a small thing, but for all the years Duncan knew Methos, the old man had never, ever paid his tab. Never. It was a ritual, it seemed, a law, that as long as Duncan was buying Methos beer everything was okay.

Well, this time it wasn't.

I was just going to throw that damn phone into the nearest wall when it rang. Well, not something unexpected when you are Joe Dawson, the Watcher. So I picked it up.

"Joe's, Dawson speaking"

"I want to speak with that pitiful excuse of an Immortal sitting in the corner of your bar. I believe he goes by the name Adam Pierson right now, although you might have known him as Methos."

I froze. My poor old heart started pounding one hundred miles a minute and my hand squeezed the phone so tight, my knuckles were white.

"And don't make me wait, old man." 

There was something evil and so cold in his voice, that I felt a shiver run down my spine. I tried to say something, but my voice stuck in my throat. I was terrified. Now, I honestly can say that I know what it was, but then, hearing that calm, low voice hissing into my ear- I felt a chill that reached straight to my soul.

My very first connection to that sound was Duncan and the way he sounded after he took the Dark Quickening. 

I couldn't move, couldn't do anything. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and looked back into the concerned eyes of my friend. It always surprised me just how perceptive Methos was. But I guess 5,000 years worth of life has to teach you a trick or two.

He mouthed to me word "troubles?" and pointed to the phone, raising his eyebrows in question.

Without a word I gave him the phone, watching him closely as he pressed it to his ear.

"Hallo?"

Let me assure you that if I was scared earlier, I was scared shitless now. I watched Methos' face became pale and then ashen in the space of a heartbeat. He kept the phone too close to his ear for me to hear anything, but whatever the speaker told him, it left him terrified. Yes terrified!

His hands were clenched so hard, they were white and his face was deathly pale.

Suddenly, his eyes flickered to me and I caught a glimpse of terror in them.

"Leave him out of this!" He hissed sharply, his voice was angry and desperate. 

I am no fool, I am fifty years old and I was in Vietnam for God's sake! I knew that whoever was calling, was threatening me. But I would expect Methos to be angry, to threaten him back, to hide his emotions as he always did. Not to see that naked fear in his eyes.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong…

"When?" His voice had this desperate edge that I didn't like at all. I understood that they were agreeing on a meeting place. A challenge. And although I am no fighter, I knew that he was in no state to fight. His hands were shaking when he put the phone down. He wasn't looking at me.

"Methos? What is it? Who was it?"

He licked his lips, but it looked like his tongue lacked any moisture.

"A… ghost. A ghost from the past I thought I would never see again."

"He challenged you, right? What's his name? I will check him out and we can call MacLeod…"

"No!" He nearly shouted on me, his features wearing the unmistakable signs of panic. "There's no time."

"What do you mean? Surely You don't want to face him alone! You haven't…"

"Listen to me Joe!" He cut in sharply "He is outside. If I don't come out to fight him, he will blow up the bar. He said he planted a bomb here. He said that if he spots anyone leaving the bar, he will set it off and the load is big enough to destroy half the street."

I couldn't believe it. 

"How do you know it's true? We should…"

"No." And his voice told me that there was no room for argument. 

I watched helplessly as he tucked his broadsword under his coat.

"I guess you have to fight this one, Old Man, don't you?" I asked softly, reaching under the bar.

"It would seem so Joe."

He made a move to leave, but I stopped him.

"Adam!"

He looked at me, something in his eyes told me that he didn't think he would win this fight.

"What?" He asked, his old, cynical self back in control. "Want me to kiss you good bye?"

I watched his eyes, when I carefully put my berretta on the bar.

I never told him, afraid that he would laugh at me, that ever since I met the geeky, shy Adam Pierson, the researcher that Don loved so much that I had kind of adopted him. I could not and would not stand to watch him go and die.

"Well, well, well… isn't it against the rules Dawson? You know all that crap about fighting one on one, with swords and honor etc…"

I just shook my head, not letting his sarcasm hit me.

"I want you to come back. Fuck the honor if it's going to get you killed."

He didn't answer, just kept looking at me for a long, disturbing moment.  
"You were always a good friend Joe." He said softly, but his hand swept the gun from the bar into the fold of his coat.

As soon as he left, I grabbed the phone and tried to dial Duncan. All the time praying that he would answer.

Taking the phone with me, I went to the storage room, knowing that the window outside would let me see what was happening. I had a feeling that if Methos and whoever the mysterious speaker was, that they would stay in the vicinity; they would fight in the back of the bar, where no one was likely to see them.

When I finally reached the small window and looked at the shadowed alley, I dropped the phone in terror.

I had no idea how long the fight lasted, but not more than six to seven minutes. When I looked out, I saw Methos, bleeding from numerous wounds, kneeling on the ground and an incredibly big man towering above him.

I think I screamed when I saw the blade descend on the exposed throat of Methos' neck. 

Suddenly, the unmistakable sounds of shots reached my ears and I watched as if in slow motion, the stranger staggered back, looking surprised at his bleeding chest and then at Methos with a gun still in his hands.

He said something and Methos answered, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying.

Then, the stranger fell to his knees, already dying from his wounds. In movements so quick and efficient, it sent shivers down my back, I saw the oldest Immortal sever the head from the body. The blood was everywhere. On the walls, on Methos, on the pavement. It was nauseating to watch the head land a few meters from the body and roll away, leaving a trail of blood behind.

When the first lightning started, I slid to the floor of my storage room, fighting to keep the contents of my stomach inside, still having the sight of Methos' blooded face before my eyes.

However, that wasn't what made me nauseous, it wasn't even the sight of the beheading. It was that unholy gleam that I saw in Methos' eyes as he stood over the body of his opponent, never taking his eyes of him.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Duncan was trying to finish his kata, but as it was more and more often lately, he couldn't concentrate. He winced when he pulled a muscle.

"You are not concentrating enough MacLeod!" He berated himself and as a punishment, decided to make one more round.

When the phone rang, he tried to ignore it in the vain hope that whoever it was would finally get tired and leave him alone to mourn a friendship that had died a slow and painful death. 

However, it didn't stop ringing and he was irritated by the sound. So, cursing loudly, in few different languages, he picked the phone up and growled:

"MacLeod"

"It's Joe. You have to come to the bar, RIGHT NOW!"

Duncan frowned at the panic in Joe's words.

"Has something happened? Are you hurt?" He asked quickly.

"No, it's not me. It's Adam. He was challenged… and something went wrong Duncan, something went very, very wrong…" 

Duncan could feel his heart skip a bit. No, it wasn't possible. The Old Man couldn't be dead!

"Is he… I mean… "

"He won… but there was something wrong with the quickening, Mac. It… I don't know. Just come here and I'll tell you when happened."

"Ok, Ok… I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just… calm down, okay Joe? I'm on my way"

He put the phone down and stared at it for a moment. God, how many calls like that had there been in the past?

Again, he felt a pang of pain in his chest for the friendship he had lost. Not only Methos, but also Joe. Sure, they were still friends, talked and hung out together but it wasn't the same. Somewhere deep inside he knew that he had let the old Watcher down and Joe could not and would not forgive him for his quick judgments. Sure, the old man never showed it, but how could Joe forgive him his mistakes if he, himself could not?

And there was always Adam, or Methos.

His betrayal hurt. Hurt him more deeply than anything ever before had. At first, when he learned about The Horsemen and Death, he was outraged, hurt, felt betrayed and angry.   
It took him a year to understand why. Why he couldn't forgive Methos, when he could forgive anyone else. He kept lying to himself that Methos had no honor, that he was a murderer, but then he had to ask himself one question. If he ever thought that Methos was a traitor, a monster that deserved to die, why hadn't he challenged him? Why hadn't he killed him?

If it was anybody else, he would have challenged him and killed him instantly. But he couldn't, wouldn't challenge Methos. No. He would rather walk away from the Old Man, hurting more than ever before.

It took him months to realize why, and he worked it out. But when the realization dawned, it was too late.

Too much had happened between them, to ever mend their relationship. There were wounds, deep gashes between them, injuries caused by words.

This is why he feared Methos. Yes, he wasn't afraid to admit it. Any wound caused by a hand or weapon could eventually heal or end his existence permanently. But Methos could hurt with words sharper than any steel.

Joe would probably laugh his head off if he ever heard that Duncan MacLeod from the Clan MacLeod was terrified of words.

But Methos, with his well aimed, sarcastic, painful remarks and words could cut deeply.

And words were so very frightening.

He always considered them as nails in the fence. Each time you offend somebody, or hurt with words, it is like putting a nail into a wooden fence. When time passes or the situation changes you can apologize. The apology is like pulling the nail out of the soft wood. But no matter how badly you try, there will always be marks, the deep holes left by that nail always remain.

You can not take back the hurt that the words caused.

And between him and the Old Man, there was a whole sea of angry, sarcastic, well aimed words. The gashes were so deep and awful that neither one of them wanted to even look at them.

He knew that a lot of it was his fault, probably most of it. But he had learned one thing. You always need two sides to have a war, and God knows, Methos was not an easy person.

Each time Duncan tried to understand, to make an effort, even if everything in him screamed that Methos can not be trusted, that cursed man always did everything to shock him, to push all of his buttons and irritate him.

He sighed once again, thinking of the problems that the oldest living Immortal had gotten himself into this time, as he got dressed. 

He actually wanted to speak to him; he missed his company, but it was already too late. There was nothing from their friendship that could be saved.

He knew that he made a fatal mistake by putting the older Immortal on a pedestal. Then he watched him fall after the truth of his past was revealed. 

And there was something more that Duncan MacLeod was unsure of.

After O'Rourke, he forced himself to think. Think why everything that Methos did, or didn't do, affected him so much. If he learned that Joe killed somebody, he wouldn't even ask why. He would have accepted that, trusting that the old Watcher had his reasons.

But the same knowledge concerning Methos nearly drew him out of his mind with rage and hurt. Why?

Because he was attracted to Methos.

Yes, after 400 years of being interested ONLY in women, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had fallen for a man. Thirteen times older than he, to add.

The guilt, shame, unresolved anger and attraction became a barrier that proved to be invincible. So much so, that he proffered to stay away from the older Immortal.

He was jerked out of his musings when he reached Joe's bar. When he saw the sign 'closed'- he knew that something bad had happened. He jumped from his T-Bird and banged at the door, calling out Joe's name.

"Jeez, Mac, not so loud." Snarled at him Joe, opening the door.

Mac wanted to answer him, but one look at the ashen face of his friend told him to be quiet. Joe looked like hell.

"What happened?" He asked quietly, following Joe to the bar and accepting a beer from him. He noticed that the older man's hands were shaking. Badly.

It occurred to him that Joe was terrified. And the mortal was not easy to scare.

"Adam was sitting in the corer, drinking beer and reading a book, just like usual and then the phone rang. Someone, I don't know who, yet, asked for Methos. Then he said that I would know him as Adam Pierson."

"Fuck." Cursed Mac softly. It meant that Methos' cover was blown.

"Yes, fuck. But it is not everything. To make a long story short; that guy said he had a bomb here in the bar and if Methos refused to leave the bar and fight him, he would blow this place. But that wasn't the worst. You know how Adam is. If there is some kind of danger he becomes calm and controlled. A tactician. This time he was so terrified that his hands shook. Have you ever seen his hands shake, Duncan? I haven't."

"What happened?"

"He left. I started calling you immediately, and went to the back room, you know the one with the view to the back."

Joe paused, considering if he wanted to tell Duncan that Methos had to shoot the bastard before he was able to win, that when he got to the window, Methos was on his knees, defenseless.

He decided against it.

In the slight hesitation, Mac read everything. He realized that Joe didn't want to tell him the truth, at least not the whole truth and it confirmed what he thought long ago.

Joe did not trust him any more. The knowledge hurt him like a dagger though his heart, but he decided to let it go. This time, there were more important things to consider.

"Methos won but there was something wrong with him Mac. His eyes… God, he looked as if it was his head that fell to the ground. He looked… dead and it scared the shit out of me. Then the Quickening started and it wasn't an ordinary one. First of all, it lasted more that twenty minutes and it burned his flesh MacLeod. I have seen patches of burnt, blackened skin where the lighting flashed. What's more, I don't think it ended there. When Methos started crawling out of the alley, the blue streaks of energy were still sparkling around his body. It looked as if his body couldn't or wouldn't assimilate the Quickening. One thing I'm sure of, is that Methos knew his opponent and was scared shitless of him. I tried to call out to him, but he didn't react. Like he wasn't there. Like he didn't recognize me at all."

"What about the bomb?"

"It was here. One of my friends found it and disarmed it, without the police knowing about any of this."

"I must find Methos. He can not wander the streets in such state. I suggest you stay here and try to find out as much about the challenger as you can, okay? I will check all of his favorite places and then his home. You can always reach me on my cell."

Joe stared at him, a little astonished at the ease in which Duncan realized that Methos needed help. Joe would be lying if he had said that he didn't expect a fight. He thought that he would've had to threaten Mac to force him to help Adam, or at least listen to some idiotic accusations about the older Immortal. But nothing like that happened.

Actually, Mac seemed to be genuinely concerned about his friend. 

"Let me know if you find him, okay Mac? I am still waiting for my people to run and identification on the challenger."

MacLeod only nodded and left the bar, never seeing the thoughtful expression in the mortal's eyes.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

The energy pulsed in his veins like a snake on heated desert sand. He was restless and a little foggy. He couldn't remember the last few hours. All he knew was that he came to, leaning on a wall in some kind of sleazy alley. The ache in his feet told him he had been wandering for hours. His mind was uneasy, tons of images were trying to push themselves into his consciousness and he instinctively knew he didn't want them.

He knew the signs. He must have taken a Quickening and that was probably the cause of the memory lapse.

It must have been an old and powerful one, to leave him so shaken, but he was 5000 years old and he could manage it.

Something in him, some part of his analytic, constantly rational mind, whispered to him that there was something wrong with his memory. He knew it was the year 2000 and that he had been known as Adam Pierson, a professor in linguistics. He was in Seacover and he owned a small apartment here. But… but there was this strange feeling that something was lacking.

He looked around. It was already dark, probably late night judging form the lack of people on the streets.

Somehow, he managed to get a taxi and told the driver his address.

He was in a strange state. He had too much energy in him, but still he felt incredibly tired. He was grateful that his coat had covered the bloody slashes on his sweater and prevented the driver from asking any questions.

The steady hum of the engine and gentle swaying lulled him into a strange state of half dreaming.

***

Pain. Incredible, burning, nauseating pain. That was the first thing he felt when he revived yet again.

His eyes hurt, but he managed to open them and look around. He was still on that hated yard. The cursed, desert sun was burning his back without mercy. Or what had left of his back.

He looked at the figure sitting in chair in the shadow, drinking from a rich goblet, waiting for him to revive. His throat was sore from screams and thirst. He wasn't allowed to drink in days, he couldn't even remember when he last ate something. His Master had been whipping him in the desert sun for the last two days, causing him to die time after time with screams and choked sobs on his lips. His back was a bloody mass of crushed tissues. Just this morning, after he healed through the night his Master found a new game. He very slowly and very carefully skinned his back, letting the bloodied patches of skin drop in front of his face, so that Methos could watch the insects eat it. 

He was bent over the narrow, wooden table. His arms and legs each tied to one leg, leaving his body open and vulnerable to any sick thing his master wanted to play. 

"I see you woke up my pet. Good. I was already bored waiting for you" The voice was deceptively gentle and soft. 

His tormentor was now standing beside him, admiring the blood drying on what was left of Methos skin on his sides. His back, buttock and back of his thighs were only a bloody mass of shredded flesh. 

Methos prayed he could die from the wounds he already received, but he knew better than that. At the very first sight of him, his Master told him, he would never take his head. No. He would be here for his pleasure. Until the end of time…

"You know, I think I outdid myself this time" The man stated in an almost conversational way. "I can actually see your backbone!" He stated joyfully and then patted Methos on his back, causing an unimaginable wave of agony to shoot through his body.

His body sagged when he sailed towards unconsciousness, but a sharp jerk of his hair, or what has left of them, brought him back to the hellish reality.

"Oh no, you don't!" The voice was still soft and gentle, bringing new tears to Methos eyes. He already couldn't remember what he did to defy his Master, but he was sorry with all his heart. He would do anything for this torment to end.

"Please…" He croaked, desperate enough to beg. He could not stand any more of this torture. He would go mad! "Please… I'll do anything… just… please… stop… I can't… I can't stand it anymore…"

Dry sobs followed his breathless, and barely audible begging. He could not stand it any longer.

"Are you sorry Methos?" Asked the deceptively gentle voice.

"Yes… yes… Master. I will do anything Master…"

"Will you?" There was a note of curiosity in the Master's voice, as Methos was nothing more than a cheap toy, one could do what he wanted with.

And he probably was.

The man stood in front of him, still keeping his head in the air by his hair and then undid his pants with the free hand.

"Open up" Came the soft order, and no matter how much pain he was in, how nauseating the thought was, Methos welcomed with relief the burgeoning erection stuffed in his mouth because it gave him hope that the pain would stop. If he was good, maybe he would be allowed from this table back to the shadow.

He tried to concentrate on breathing through his nose each time the man pulled his erection from his sore, aching throat. But he should have known better. After only few minutes the man stopped thrusting and pushed his cock so deep inside Methos' mouth that he cut his air supply completely. He kept a strong grip on Methos' hair, watching as the tormented man slowly suffocated with penis down his throat. Only when Methos jerked for the last time and his eyes rolled back, did the man finish fucking his mouth and spent himself with an unholy laughter.

He never forgot that laughter.

***

Methos jerked awake with a pounding heart and covered in cold sweat. The adrenaline in his veins was only making the terror worse.

He swallowed shakily and tried to reach some kind of balance in his tormented mind. However nauseating and terrifying the vision was, it was not a creation of his imagination. It was a memory., One, still too vivid in his mind.

He reached for the blade hidden in his coat and squeezed the handle tightly.

Never again. Never again will he allow a powerful Immortal any power over him. 

 

* * *

Duncan sighed and directed his steps towards the building he knew Methos lived in. He had never actually been there, but he knew. Maybe it was pitiful, but he had tried to fish information from Joe about Methos without raising any suspicions. 

Now, it came in handy. He knew all of the places the Old Man liked to spend time, but it gave him nothing. He had been searching for eight hours straight and couldn't find any trace of Methos. Finally, he decided to go back to the apartment he knew Methos owned.

As soon as he reached the second floor, he sensed the Presence. It was powerful and it sang to him in a very familiar way.

Methos!

He had found him.

Later, he would curse himself for his lack of thought. But right now, he was so relieved to know that Methos was home and alive. He ran to the door, forgetting about the katana he held in his hand, after sensing the Presence.

He pounded on the door, opening his mouth to call Methos, when the door swung open and he found himself staring into a pair of alien green eyes in a very familiar face.

It took him a moment to realize that something was… off. Slowly, he looked down and saw a pale, elegant hand with long fingers, fingers that he knew so well, keeping a tight hold on a dagger embedded deeply in his heart.

Just before he collapsed to the floor, he wondered if the cold cruelty in the alien eyes would be the last thing he ever saw.

Funny, he never thought he would die at Methos' hand. Never. Even during the come back of Kronos, Duncan somehow knew he would not be killed by Methos.

Was he wrong?

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

 

God it hurt.

Duncan always hated reviving. It was such a strange, terrifying feeling to come back to pain and emptiness. He always thought that the strange, cold and empty feeling that always came with reviving was a shadow of death. A reminder of what he'd escaped once again.

He didn't open his eyes, trying to focus on his body instead. The instincts learned in his early years were still with him and told him to learn as much of his surroundings as he could before he betrayed that he was alive and aware again.

"Quit the game. I know you are awake."

His eyes snapped open at hearing the cold, hoarse voice. As soon as he did so, he realized he was tied up. His wrists were at a painful angle behind his back and his legs were also tightly bound. 

He looked in the direction of the voice.

Methos was straddling a chair, the Ivanhoe in easy reach of his hand, and his own katana lying near the broadsword. 

"Methos…" He tried, but his wound wasn't healed completely yet and speaking was hard. "Why… why did you… attack me?"

His answer was a sarcastic laugh.

Duncan couldn't not notice the change in Methos. He was always a sensual creature, but the way he was sitting in that chair, long legs straddling it, the denim tight on the lean, sinewy thighs and the strangely green eyes fixed on Duncan with savage intensity, he expelled an incredible aura of eroticism… and power.

This was no Adam Pierson, geeky book worm, sitting in front of him. This was Methos. World's oldest Immortal.

"And what did you expect me to do when a strange, armed Immortal was banging at my door in the middle of the night. Offer my head on a silver plate?"

Strange?! Duncan's mind shouted.

"Strange?! Methos… Adam… you can't possibly be serious. You know me!"

Methos regarded the bound man once again. 

It was strange that this Immortal knew his real name. He was always very careful with his real name.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" He asked calmly, but his hand reached for his broadsword. "And before you answer I suggest you think about your answer. I promise you, that you can die many, many times before the sunrise." 

Mac closed his mouth. Something dark in Methos's voice stopped him.

"Can't you remember Methos?" He immediately regretted using his real name, seeing as these cold, green eyes narrowed dangerously "You are Adam Pierson, professor of linguistics… you are my friend."

"Who are you?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. We met three years ago in Paris. Mi casa es su casa, remember?"

Cool, green eyes regarded him for a long moment.

"I have no idea why are you trying to lie to me? Surely you understand that you are in no position to trade. You are bound and ready for me to take your head. How do you know my name?"

"You told me. When I met you in Paris."

"Bullshit. You are a head hunter" The older Immortal spat angrily.

"No! I hate the Game as much as you do! What makes you say so?"

"I can sense it. I can hear in your Presence that you are fairly young but very powerful. You have taken many heads."

Suddenly, his cool disappeared and anger took its place. Duncan knew that something was wrong with Methos, besides the obvious. He watched the small, jerky movements betraying his restlessness. And it was unnerving, because he had never seen Methos so out of control.

Methos was increasingly angry with the lies that the man was trying to sell him. Just who did he think he was? A half minded idiot? 

But… some part of him, the rational one that stared at the bound man on the floor and saw his warm, dark eyes for what they were, told him that that man may not be a murderer.

On the other hand, Methos knew from personal experience just how cruel and deceiving those most powerful Immortal's were. And age had nothing to do with it.

"What are you doing here?" He decided to wait a little.

"Joe and I were worried about you. Joe said you had a fight, a challenge and that something went wrong with the Quickening."

Methos narrowed his eyes. Quickening? It could be true, considering the headache and the constant flashbacks from his past. 

"Why should I believe you? I don't know any Joe and you might have come here to take advantage of my vulnerable state after taking a powerful Quickening"

"What can I do to convince you?"

Duncan felt completely lost. He didn't know this man in front of him and the way Methos changed the tone of his voice. From calm, almost cold to aggressive in a matter of a heartbeat.

"Why have I told you about my real identity? I never do that."

Methos changed his pose, stretching the long legs in front of him and Mac swallowed observing the hard, sinewy muscles stretching under the thin, too often washed denim.

There was something incredibly erotic in the way Methos was sitting, his arms crossed over the back of the chair and head resting on his hands. The suddenly very intense green eyes were watching him with something akin to predatory intensity. There was something intensely erotic in the way the older Immortal was keeping his stance.

Duncan always suspected that Methos was a deeply sensual creature, and some glimpses that he caught throughout the years only made him believe it more strongly. Now however, all that raw magnetism was unleashed and Mac realized he couldn't take his eyes off him.

"I… I was tracking an Immortal who was killing Watchers in order to find a myth… Methos. Joe, he is my watcher and your friend, although he didn't know you were Immortal, called you, Adam Price, to ask a favor. I wanted to find Methos first and warn him about the danger. When I came to your place, I sensed that you were an Immortal. You tossed me a beer and said: Mi casa es su casa. That moment I knew you were Methos. And you confirmed. After that we became friends."

Duncan stopped his story, waiting and watching Methos.

The oldest Immortal cocked his head to the side and half closed his eyes, as if listening to something.

He tasted, listened and felt the buzz, the Presence. The way it coursed through his veins, how it sang to the very core of his being.

The young Immortal didn't lie, but he also wasn't telling the whole truth.

"That's not the whole story, isn't it? We are not friends."

Duncan opened his mouth to deny but changed his mind.

"I guess… not like before. Not like at the beginning."

"Why?"

"I learned about… Death on a horse." Mac whispered the words not sure how will Methos react. He saw the sudden tension, the cold gleam in his eyes, but the older Immortal hadn't moved.

He curled his lips with contempt and spat:

"Judgmental… Highlander?" He didn't notice what he called Mac.

"I…" Mac faltered for a moment, then decided to tell the truth. Maybe it was his only chance. Maybe it would change something? "When I met you… I put you on a pedestal. I mean, you seemed too… vulnerable to me. The oldest living Immortal, that had left the Game long ago and seemed to despise the Game, avoiding it at any cost. Yet, you offered me your head when you thought that Kalas could defeat me."

"I did what?! Surely you can't expect I will believe such a lie!" Exclaimed Methos, caught off guard.

"You did. You said that Kalas can defeat you, can defeat me, but he can't defeat both of us."

Methos hadn't answered, but had to admit that it sounded awfully a lot like something he could come up with. Sometimes he had such stupid ideas…

"I admired you. We were friends, but you never let me know you. You never spoke of your past, always hidden under the Adam Pierson persona. At that time, I really believed that Adam Pierson was Methos."

"Ah… and when you realized your mistake?" Asked the other man sarcastically.

"When Kronos came back to unite the Horsemen."

In a flash, Methos was up and stood with his Ivanhoe poised inches from Duncan's neck.

"Where is he now?" The voice was cold and deadly, and Duncan had a brief moment of panic when he realized that this man, no longer the Methos he knew, was ready to kill him.

"I killed him."

"So you are like him." These weren't even words. They were a low, deadly growl.

Although he saw the blade arch high in air, although he knew the position, the only one to strike the fatal blow, he couldn't believe that Methos would kill him, until he looked into his eyes.

Dark, wild… full of a hatred so deep, so ancient that it erased every single trace of the person that he knew as a friend.

He closed his eyes when the blade started its descent. His last thought was that if Sean's Quickening helped him defeat the Dark Quickening, maybe his would help Methos remember.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

 

NO!

Something in him screamed against his action, something loud enough to cut through the rage that consumed him.

At the last moment, Methos changed the angle of the blow, unable to pull it completely, and drew his Ivanhoe through Duncan's heart with sickening crunch of slashed bones and a small river of blood exploding over the broad chest of the bound man.

The body jerked only once and then stilled.

The sense of Presence disappeared and the silence seemed to roar in his ears. 

Kronos.

Blood.

Pain.

His headache intensified and he wasn't even aware of the howl that escaped him when the images started pressing at him, forcing themselves to the front of his mind.

He whirled around, jerking his sword from the dead body on the floor and hit the wall with both fists, barely noticing the pain of crushed bones.

He kept screaming and screaming, pounding his abused hands into the wall, fighting with everything he had to stop the memories, to stop the images. To stop everything.

***

The whole world consisted only of pain. 

Pain and shame.

He doubted that there could be anything more humiliating than what he went though, or was going through now.

He was lying on the hard, wooden floor. Sharp splinters were embedded deep in his chest and belly, his ribs broken from the constant beating, his face pressed into the puddle of human excrement while his hands were chained to the D-rings embedded deeply in the floor.

He was lying in the pool of his own blood and other body fluids. His feet had been broken with a hammer and his body was still moving under the force of the thrusts of the man currently raping him.

His anal passage had been bleeding purposefully for hours on end, while man after man had raped and beaten him.

Each thrust of the hated cock inside him felt as if he was being torn apart. The agony was driving him mad, but there was no hope, no chance to end his suffering.

It went on an on… man after man, blow after blow. When he lost consciousness, they kept burning wood under his fingers until he came to, screaming in agony and then continued. 

If he died, they waited until he revived and the terror started again.

Once… in another lifetime he was a scholar and a warrior. He knew languages, he could write, and read.

Now he couldn't even speak.

Night after night, day after day of unimaginable torture, humiliation, rape of soul, body and mind and his body healing and allowing his tormentors to start again, erased all traces of humanity from his mind.

He was the animal his master considered him to be.

His existence consisted of pain and more pain.

Each breath he took was only because his Master wanted him to.

He suffered for his Master's pleasure.

He whimpered, unable to scream when the rapist withdrew. He could feel new streams of blood rushing down between his thighs, making his skin feel sticky and him feel lightheaded.

Some part of his mind knew he was dying, from the internal damages and blood loss, but all of his being welcomed death as a temporary salvation.

At least there would be a few moments where he wouldn't feel pain… at least a heartbeat…

He died to the smell of blood, cum and human excrements. 

He died to the sound of laughter.

***

"No! No! No!" Methos kept screaming, still hitting the wall, not noticing the bloody traces left by his smashed and broken knuckles. 

Tears were streaming down his face, oxygen was burning his lungs and hatred was burning his mind.

There was no words, no scream, nothing that could express his hatred, his pain and his despair.

Finally, his foggy brain registered the pain in his hands and he stopped pounding the wall.

Panting, he stared at his bloody hands with unseeing eyes.

Slowly, he sank to his knees, deep, desperate sobs spilled from his lips when the memories refused to go away…

Burying his face in his hands, he cried while his mind was thrown back in time… 

***

He came back to the same hated world of pain, as always praying that he would not come back this time.

But no matter what was done to him, no matter what he suffered, he always revived.

He could have cried, if he wasn't dying of thirst.

He would have begged, if he wasn't dying of hunger.

He would have tried to escape, if he wasn't dying of pain.

First he heard footsteps, then a hand in his long, dirty hair pulling his head up.

"So… pet… you came back to me?" Asked the same soft voice that terrified him to no end.

He heard some kind of commotion in the doorway and looked in that direction. Two men dragged a young woman inside, a child still… maybe 13 years old… maybe younger.

She was skinny, dirty and frightened, pleading with a high pitched, panicked voice.

Something in his fuzzy, groggy mind was moved at the sight of her bruised face and bloodied thighs. 

He knew her… saw her… somewhere…

But the pain was too intense, he closed his eyes unable to think, unable even to breathe with the searing pain traveling along his body.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that his hands were freed. 

"Do you want it to stop my pet?" Asked the soft, gentle voice.

His eyes snapped open.

Stop? There was a way to stop this?

He tried to answer, but after so many days? Months? Years? He wasn't sure he could still talk, so he nodded, desperate to do anything, to stop the pain, the torment.

He felt his burned fingers being curled around something hard and smooth.

"If you want it to stop pet…" The Master stopped and Methos felt his muscles shaking in anticipation.

Anything!

Everything!

His mind screamed what his mouth couldn't.

"…kill her."

Some tiny part of him screamed at him, fought, screaming that it went against everything he was, but the other, the one that kept him alive and sane told him that the life of that dirty girl was a small price.

The pain would stop.

His fingers clenched at the handle of the knife with strength that surprised him.

His whole existence was serving now one purpose. Survival.

Slowly, he started crawling towards the shaking girl a few meters away from him, held firmly by the guards.

His feet, crushed with the heavy hammer, were unable to take his weight so he had to crawl on his belly and each movement of his thighs caused another river of blood to spill from his anus. 

His protruding ribs were dragged on the hard, wooden floor, but he barely noticed the pain of the splinters cutting into his flesh.

His muscles trembled from exhaustion, but he would not give up.

He had no name, no past… nothing… except that one and only target.

Passing that few meters seemed to take eternity. Throughout each move, each painful inch, he kept his eyes fixed on the girl's face.

She was his salvation.

She was his chance.

Blood never looked better than when he slashed her chest open and watched the life seep out of her. Watched the dark, terrified eyes lose their awareness and then turn empty as she slid to the floor.

Dead.

The world became gray and he sank to the floor, somehow still aware of the outside world.

He felt a hand in his hair and flinched weakly.

"Good my pet… excellent." The Master praised him. "I told you, that I would break you Methos, Healer of Laash. You told me that you couldn't possibly kill an innocent. That it went against you nature. So I changed your nature…"

He lost consciousness to the sound of the quiet, soft laughter of a madman.

***

Methos blinked and shook himself from his reverie.

It was the year 2000, almost 5,500 years later. He was in his own apartment.

Safe.

Free.

Extremely dangerous.

No one, ever again would take his freedom away. He would kill everything and everyone standing in his way. 

His gaze was drawn to the bloodied figure on the floor.

It was too much to risk. This stranger… or whoever he was, was a threat to his safety, even if he wasn't an enemy.

Still, although his mind knew he should kill the Immortal and leave, all his being, everything inside him refused.

No matter what happened.

He could not kill Duncan MacLeod.

Why?

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

 

Still shaking from the force of those long forgotten memories, Methos pulled himself up.

The things he remembered… they must have happened to him when he was young, probably in the vicinity of his first death. When he still didn't know what he was and how one could kill him. 

It seemed to him that this Master was controlling his life and his death.

He still couldn't remember the name or the face of his master. Only that scary, deceivingly soft voice that was always a promise of incredible pain.

He turned and looked at the bloodied figure on the floor.

Maybe the Scot was his friend? After all he couldn't take his head. Even when he killed him, when he heard and saw the dagger bury itself in the man's chest, the thought to take his head had never even crossed his mind.

Slowly, realizing that his hands were still shaking, he dragged himself to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He knew that reviving always made the Immortals thirsty.

When he came back to the room, a little more in control, he saw the first signs of reviving.

Methos closed his eyes for a moment trying to center himself, calm… but the recently taken Quickening was still raging in his body, refusing to settle. It felt like a knife that went not though his body but through his mind, dragging out each and every most painful and disgusting memory it could find.

If he didn't remember his past, his first years as a mortal and then as an Immortal, it probably meant that his mind was trying to protect him from something. Especially since he remembered his past perfectly, each lover, each wife, each challenger he defeated… everything except the first years…

When Methos reached the man on the floor, Duncan started moving. First the sparks of blue lightning racing just under the surface were the sign that his Quickening was already at work. That and the sudden roaring of his Presence that burst out in Methos's mind.

The oldest Immortal paused for a moment, looking at the Highlander with bewildered eyes.

It had been many, many ages since the last time he was able to see the Quickening at work so clearly. He could do it in the times of his own head hunting, when the intervals between taking Quickening were just a few days.

But he had taken only a few heads in the last 200 years. At least he thought so.  
When he reached back with his memory everything was okay, but he realized that when he tried to remember what he had been doing yesterday… it was a little bit… fuzzy.

He saw the eyelids of the Scot flutter and the sharp, whizzing intake of breath when he revived. He was hit with the full sense of Presence and at once he reacted to it.

He gasped at the sudden, nearly painfully strong desire that shot through his body, making his cock rock hard and leaving him uncomfortable in his jeans.

Slowly, taking a deep breath he tried to steady his panting breaths.

The scent of fear that still lingered in the room, the scent of blood and the uncommon, male beauty of the man lying at his feet, brought back an old, while terrifying in its intensity, familiar desire.

Strong and dark passion that had once lead him down the path that was Death… Death on a horse.

"Calm down." He said in quiet, steady voice, kneeling beside the wounded man. "It's okay."

He got no reaction, but that wasn't surprising. Two deaths in rapid succession could do that to an Immortal.

Duncan suffered vast injuries and his body needed time to heal.

Methos pressed the glass to the dry, cracked lips and encouraged softly:

"Drink it. It's only water. Drink"

When the Scot flinched from his touch, which was perfectly understandable, since it was Methos who killed him, the Oldest Living Immortal felt something deep inside him knot and twist painfully.

Seeing Mac flinch from him was… painful. So maybe the man was telling the truth? Maybe they were friends after all?

And then it hit him.

He thought "Mac". He understood that the nickname came from the man's last name, but it was affectionate and it confirmed his statement. At some point, Methos and that man, had been close.

"Drink. I won't hurt you." He said softly, trying to reassure the hurting man with his words, his voice, if not his touch.

He breathed a relieved sigh when the dark haired man started drinking the water in clumsy, painful sips.

* * *  
Duncan woke up to pain. 

Pain and confusion.

At first he couldn't remember what had happened. Then it came back to him.

Joe's call, the search and then finding Methos. The panic that hit him at the first memory of the pain in his chest when the dagger was buried deep inside only intensified when he remembered the cold rage that took over Methos, after he mentioned Kronos.

In that instant Duncan was sure, that Methos would kill him. He watched the silver arch of the descending blade and couldn't believe what he was seeing. 

After everything that happened, after everything that was said and done between them, somewhere deep inside his heart, he believed that Methos would never hurt him. Would never go after his head. 

But looking into those beautiful, incredibly hard green eyes that changed from curiosity to fury in the space of a heartbeat, he realized that it was no longer Methos.

Or maybe it wasn't Adam Pierson - the Methos he was used to. It was as if that gentle part of his personality had never existed and in flash of painful clarity Duncan realized that he was looking at Methos. The one that survived five thousand years of the Game, of killing and head hunting. A man that was Death, a man that had plans inside of plans and a man, that cherished only one thing - only his survival.

At any cost.

It was precisely that side of his friend that Duncan hoped never to see again.

So now, when he realized that Methos was close beside him and was reaching for him, he flinched. It was instinctive, a natural reaction since Methos caused him harm two times in a row. He died two times in rapid succession and his wounds still weren't healed.

Breathing hurt and his mind was still a little fuzzy.

When he felt a gentle hand push the hair from his face and press something cool to his lips he tensed, not sure he could trust those hands that tortured him just few moments ago.

"Drink it. It's only water. Drink"

The voice sounded strange, different from the cold rage from earlier.

It seemed gentle, concerned… tormented even. Duncan wanted to open his eyes and look at the other man's face to see what happened, but he was too weak.

He had ribs broken by the sword, slashed to pieces and he needed time to heal. Time and peace. And the position his hand and legs were tied made it difficult for his body to heal, the tension kept moving the broken bones causing him more agony.

"Drink. I won't hurt you."

And he believed. Once again he trusted this man, believing that there was at least a ghost of a chance for them.

Carefully, trying to control his body's reaction, Duncan started to sip the blessedly cool water, feeling the moisture flow down his throat and soothe the aggravated tissues.

He wasn't sure how long it took, but he was aware of Methos holding his head until he emptied the glass. He was feeling marginally better, but his wounds still weren't healed due to his position.

"I'm going to move you to the bed and then cut the bonds. Try to help me with it."

Duncan exhaled when he felt strong arms slide under his and then white hot pain that slashed through him, when he was pulled upright. He felt pressure on his lungs and lost consciousness, gratefully escaping the pain into blessed oblivion.

* * *

Moving the Highlander to the bed wasn't easy. The man was at least twenty pounds heavier than him and his limp weight seemed two times heavier. Grunting, Methos managed to drag him to the bed and dump him there, with little gentleness. But since the man was unconscious he figured it didn't matter.

He took the same dagger that killed the man earlier and cut the bonds, laying him prone on the bed with his arms along his body. In this position, he was sure that there was no strain on his muscles or bone structure, so that his Quickening could finish the work of healing him.

Only when he had finished doing that, did he realize just how bad the damage caused by the sword was. In the vicinity of his chest and the middle of his chest, it was literally slashed open and he could still see the shards of bone sticking out from the chest where the sword caused the worst damage.

Considering this, Methos had to admit that this Immortal had to have one hell of a strong Quickening to be able to heal that fast. That led to the question:

What the hell was he doing with a powerful Immortal? Hadn't he learned from his "adventure" with Kronos?

Obviously not.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Duncan regained consciousness to a strangely pleasurable feeling; something wet and warm on his chest, moving slowly up and down.

He opened his eyes only to freeze in shock. Beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed was Methos with a wet towel in his hand, and he was obviously cleaning the blood from Duncan's chest.

Mac looked down and noted that his coat and shirt had been taken off. He was lying only in his jeans and Methos had cleaned the blood and gore from him.

"Have you… remembered?" He asked tentatively, watching the ancient Immortal closely.

The green eyes flickered to gold for a brief moment, giving the impression that Adam was just an arm's reach away, but then turned back to a hard, cold green.

"We couldn't be friends. Never" Stated Methos calmly.

"Why?" Duncan was careful not to make any sudden movements, not to provoke Methos any more. He had learned his lesson.

A slow, dangerous smile appeared on the sharp featured face and his eyes seemed to flicker from green to gold and back in rapid succession.

Methos looked at him, wondering if the man really had no idea or if he was just playing with him. Toying like Kronos did, all the time realizing just how much power he had over him.

Supposing that he really did forget his recent past, it was terrifying how much power over him this Scot had. Even not knowing him, even realizing that he was a threat to his safety, he still couldn't kill him. Not permanently. What is more, even killing him for a short period of time, left him with the sense of a dark, unpleasant feeling that seemed to slowly suffocate him. A feeling that he personally loathed and hated with vengeance.

Guilt.

He really couldn't believe that he felt guilty for causing this man pain! It was something so ultimately unlike him!

"Because, Highlander…" He said slowly, in a low voice, never taking his eyes from the soft, brown gaze of the other Immortal. He neared the bed and bent over it, still looking straight in the other man's eyes "I want you. And I never become friends with the ones I find sexually attractive."

Duncan held his breath, surprised and bewildered. Never, in his wildest dreams did he imagine a scenario like that. Was Methos attracted to him the whole time they knew each other, or was it a new development caused by his strange memory loss?

"I…" He tried to say something, but his words stuck in his throat when he felt the first touch of graceful, pale hands on his stomach, gliding softly through his chest hair to the well developed pectorals. The single, rather simple contact, shook him to the core.

Mentally, he knew that he was attracted to Methos, and he even managed to come to terms with it. But now, faced with the wild, hot rush of desire that coursed through his body, he found himself shaking and unsure.

He wanted to make love with Methos. And it was probably the problem, because the man in front of him wasn't talking about love, but sex as a means of power. A way of establishing one's domination over another.

"Methos please…" Duncan was shocked to find his voice shaking, but the situation was so strange and so… delicate he didn't know what to do. If he reacted badly, he could scare the man off and cause him to disappear, or he could enrage him, and end up without his head. 

"Try to remember… Paris, the barge… Amanda… Joe…, for god's sake! Alexa… do you remember her? The gentle woman who worked at Joes as a waitress… she was terminally ill but you fell in love with her. Can't you remember how you traveled the world with her, trying to show her as much of it's miracles as possible? Please… try to remember…" Duncan pleaded, keeping his body still and his arms at his sides, sure that the barest movement from his side would be considered a threat.

Methos looked up into the soft, brown eyes full of desperate pleading and felt a sharp pain slice through his brain.

He wasn't aware of the scream that ensued or the sudden movement, as he jerked away from the Scot and hit the bedside table with his hip. The pain went unregistered when the agony in his brain soared through him. He stumbled backwards until his legs gave under him and he went down clutching his head, trying to control the agony.

… The room was small, clean and smelled of antibiotics. The whole place was dominated by a bed, covered in white linen and a painfully small frame rested so still on it. A multitude of different medical machinery surrounded the bed and its occupant. With a plastic tube helping her to breathe, the fragile woman looked ostensibly skinny and tired, illness marring her face.

The skin had an earthy, unhealthy color and the fingers of the small hand he was cradling with desperate gentleness in his, were small and withered.

His whole attention was on the pale face with closed eyes, his brain not registering the constant sound from the machinery, that claimed her to be dead. He could only sit there, the pain in him so strong, that breathing was almost too hard bother with.. He wanted to cry, to let his grief show, but he couldn't. He couldn't even claim that it was a surprise. He knew, from the day he met her, that she would die. And after all, he spent the last months of her life watching as the sickness ate her from the inside, making her weaker by each day. He watched the light of her life fade bit by bit every day and it took so long… so long and too soon at the same time. 

Now, looking at her still body, knowing that her torment had ended, he couldn't imagine living another day. 

He sat there, immersed in pain so strong, he though he would die, and watched the shadows on the walls became longer and darker as the day turned into evening. 

He wasn't aware of the sisters that came in and switched the machinery off, nor did he hear the quiet prayers.

He could only sit there and feel the last bit of warmth leave her still body.

 

When Methos came back to reality, he realized he was huddled in the corner of the room, his face wet from tears. The scene was so real, so painfully real… but as soon as he opened his eyes it started to fade away. The face of the dying woman was only a shadow. He still couldn't remember her name… only the burning pain that choked him. 

He was intelligent enough to understand that there was some truth in what the Highlander was telling him. His memory was definitely playing tricks on him, and each memory that came back to him was more painful that the last.

Even now, he could feel the images, the feelings from memories caused by the Quickening he took, just under the surface and if he let go of his careful concentration, he knew he would go mad under the onslaught. 

It took him a moment to realize that the Highlander was calling him.

"… Methos? Do you hear me? What is going on? What happened?"

Methos shook his head, trying to regain some measure of control over himself. He knew one thing. He needed to get away from that place. He needed to go somewhere where he could be alone, to lick his wounds.

He looked up on the still weak man, trying to sit up. His broken ribs weren't healed yet and he gasped as the pain shot through him and he had to lie down again. His reaction told him that he must have been out for no longer that few minutes, because if it was longer, the Highlander would have been healed completely.

If he wanted to disappear, he needed to do it now. Something told him that he needed to get away from the Highlander. The effect he had on Methos, the sheer strength of his personality and the different, violent emotions he caused in the oldest Immortal, were too much. If the man lied and knew about the attraction… he could find himself in a trap. And, he could not forget that the man had taken Kronos's head.

With so many heads he had to have taken, judging from the feel of his Presence, Methos was sure he could find himself in the same trap that 3,000 years ago, he had barely managed to escape.

He was in motion as soon as he made his decision. Years of survival taught him to always have a packed backpack at hand and to never keep valued possessions where he lived.

"Methos…! No, stop! Don't…" Duncan tried to stop him, but he didn't listen. He grabbed the backpack and keys from the table pulling the coat on.

"Methos!" Duncan was sure, that if he let Methos leave now, he would never see him again. Ignoring the pain and the difficulty breathing, he hauled himself to his feet. He saw dark spots in front of his eyes, but ignored them as well, intent on stopping Methos from leaving.

After all the things he did wrong, after all the things he didn't do, the question he hadn't asked, letting his friendship with Methos fall apart, he felt he couldn't let this man slip from his grasp.

He managed to catch Methos when the older Immortal was reaching for the door handle.

"Please… don't leave. Don't disappear…" He whispered harshly, holding the wiry arms as much for support as to make sure that Methos wouldn't go anywhere. "Stay… let me help you… let me…"

Methos closed his eyes against the gentle warmth in those earthy-brown eyes of the Highlander. Some part of him desperately wanted to believe him. He didn't want to face his memories alone; he was terrified by the absolute lack of control he had over himself at the moment. The prospect of leaning on somebody so obviously strong was tempting.

But a little, cold voice inside him, the same that told him how to survive for the 5, 000 years, reminded him what happened when he had trusted a strong immortal the last time.

…Let me help you Methos. Let me take away the pain… all you need to do is trust me. Methos… come with me. Come with me brother and the pain will go away washed in the blood of your enemies…

Duncan knew he lost the moment the eyes turned to cold green again. Methos's sharp features were now determined and set.

"Don't try to follow me Highlander. I am not your friend, and should we meet again, I will not hesitate to take your head"

Lie… lie… lie…! Methos's mind screamed at him. He would never be able to take the Highlander's head, just like he couldn't kill Kronos.

He twisted from the man's grip and pushed him away forcefully, sending him staggering back to bed.

"Leave me alone." With that, Methos left, intent on disappearing. This was, after all, something he practiced for thousands of years.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7

It's been almost six weeks since that fatal challenge, and no sign of Methos. God knows I did everything that was possible to find the elusive man, but he just… disappeared.

I pulled each and every string I had, asked, threatened and begged people; mostly Watchers, to help me.

However, no one had heard of or seen Adam Pierson. The geeky researcher just seemed to vanish from the surface of the earth.

To tell the truth I couldn't believe what Mac told me. How could Methos forget Me? Mac? Alexa? But remember that he was Adam Pierson? How was it possible for people so important to him to be erased form his memory and yet still leave it as a whole?

MacLeod was in terrible shape. He refused to tell me everything that happened in Adam's apartment, this I am sure of. He couldn't look me straight in the eyes when he talked, but I suppose, that some things were too personal to tell.

And If I have to be sincere, Adam could lash out with words and hurt much, much more accurately than any sword could.

I put down the last glass and leaned heavily on the bar. I was tired.

Mac was spending whole days searching for Adam, traveling from town to town, chasing even the slightest lead, and brooding, while I was left here in Seacover to bite my fingernails from worry.

Of course I understood Mac's need to find Adam, but there was something… different in the man. The months they spent in the same city, not talking to each other, avoiding any possible meeting, and now Duncan seems obsessed with the need to find Methos.

I reach back to the time after O'Rourke when I noticed the uneasiness in their friendship. It was strained earlier and that seemed to be the last straw. At first I was furious at Mac, his judgmental attitude and stubbornness. I thought that it was his attitude that pushed Methos away.

But, being almost sixty, I learned to wait before I drew conclusions.

So I watched, after all it is my job, right?

And guess what I have seen? Yes, Mac was guilty of being a judgmental bastard, but MacLeod is naturally gentle person. Honorable. Understanding.

And that was where the problem laid. 

Mac was so distraught and uneasy in Adam's company, because he didn't understand. He tried to accept all the things he knew about Methos's past. He really did. But, if I wanted to be fair, I had to admit that Methos wasn't helping Mac one bit.

When I put myself in Duncan's shoes, I realized that all the things he knew about Adams past, were told by third parties. Adam never tried to explain, or even tell his side of the story. He expected Duncan to KNOW everything and accept it right away.

To my eyes, they both suffered from a case of Hero worship. MacLeod expected a 5,000 years old Immortal to be WISE, to be some kind of icon. Instead he got "just a guy" kind of man that was making his own foolish mistakes.

Adam expected MacLeod to be a hero worthy of The Prize. He expected him to KNOW everything and understand. Not to judge… to be perfect. And when Mac proved to be just a human being, easily mislead and fallible, Adam got angry and snarled at the man each time he tried to mention Methos' past. 

So, it wasn't really surprising that after a while, they started avoiding each other.

Now however, six weeks after Adam left, I was also worried. Normally, I would miss the Old Man, but I knew he had to learn something to survive this long. Yes, he did lose his memory, but it was memory of me and MacLeod, it was merely a few years, it wasn't even one percent of his life! 

But, what got me worried was the other thing. I was thinking about it, and decided not to tell Duncan about my last findings. He had enough on his mind already.

What scared the shit out of me, was the fact that the Watchers hadn't been able to ID the Immortal that challenged Methos.

When I put his photo into the database, I got nothing! Nothing! Sure, Watchers did not have files on every Immortal, but most of the elders were at least mentioned. Hell, they knew that Methos existed! Maybe not where or who he was now, but they KNEW.

But not this John Doe. I think that he had to be old. For one thing, he knew that Adam Pierson was Methos, secondly… Adam was terrified. That meant that he had to have met the man earlier.

I heard the bar's door open, but was so engrossed in my thoughts that it took me a moment to realize that somebody was sitting at the bar in front of me.

Quickly, I raised my eyes and actually felt my mind wander off to lands unseen.

A young woman was sitting in front of me. Yeah, it says a lot, doesn't it? The matter was, that she was definitely, the most beautiful, breathtaking woman I have ever seen. 

She had shoulder length, wavy, blonde hair with light red highlights giving the soft mass of hair soft, warm glow. She had a kind of golden skin that comes naturally, not from the sun. 

At first I though she was in her early twenties, a child really, until I looked into her eyes.

They were large, black pools that held all the mysteries inside. She was dressed in a simple outfit. Black pants from some kind of soft material, hugging her long legs like a second skin, and simple turtleneck, also black. Her make up was discreet and she wasn't smelling of any suffocating perfume, only something sophisticated and barely detectable.

I knew I was staring, but I couldn't get my tongue to work at all. One would think that after knowing Cassandra and Amanda, I should be immune to beauty. But no, right now, in front of this strangely quiet woman, I felt like a teenager.

I wanted her.

Badly.

That thought brought me back to reality. I was an almost sixty year old, disabled, bar owner. I could dream. 

She was sitting on the bar stool, silently watching me with those black, bottomless eyes and I felt a shiver run down my spine. There was something… different in her.

Danger.

Yes, it was the aura of danger that surrounded her. In one, astonishing flash of understanding, I realized that she was Immortal. It was something about the way she sat, so sure of herself and her eyes, so old and… all seeing that assured me in my assumption.

I tensed, not sure what to expect. She didn't seem to have any weapon with her, but as an Immortal, she was a weapon herself.

Then, she slowly lowered her gaze from my eyes, to my Watcher tattoo on my wrist and then looked me back in the eyes.

She knew who I was and she knew I recognized her.

"What can I do for you?" I asked after a long silence. I was uneasy under that all-knowing dark gaze. And the fact that she was breathtakingly beautiful did nothing to help me.

She gave me a slow, lazy and incredibly sensual smile.

"You can invite me to a late dinner." Her voice was soft, quiet and it sent shivers of want down my spine. I stirred, baffled by my body's reaction to her. Granted, I haven't had a woman in… a long time, but I wasn't that desperate!

But on the other side, I was painfully aware of my looks. When I was working, I looked okay, only the slight limping was the mark that something with my legs was not right, but at home, when I went to bed I was painfully aware of the fact that I had only PART of my legs. That I was not whole… that not one woman wanted me because they couldn't look at what was left of my legs. And although I led a normal life, that aspect of my life was still very painful.

Was she trying to seduce me? If yes, I was already hers. But what would happen when she realized that I could walk only thanks to the prostheses? 

To this day, I don't know what possessed me. Maybe she was a witch, maybe she had The Voice like Cassandra? And maybe she was so beautiful that the very illusion of her wanting me was enough to turn my brain in a pile of hay. 

I left the bar to Mike and left with her. She was slightly taller than me and moved with incredible grace as I watched her rise from the bar stool and follow me to the entrance. There were no words exchanged between us when I led her to my truck. She must have seen the way I was walking, but she didn't say a word.

If she wasn't aware of my disability then, she MUST have noticed it when we got into my car and I started it. It was a special vehicle, designed for people with disabled legs.

She cast me a long look, her dark eyes hiding thousands of secrets but, as before, was silent.

We weren't talking during the drive to my house, but it felt… good. It wasn't the kind of strained, heavy silence that grated on your nerves. It was… comfortable.

So I invited her in, asked her to get comfortable and went to kitchen to prepare something fast. Maybe spaghetti?

All the time I kept watching her. She was so devastatingly beautiful. Long hair was falling in the softest looking wave of silk on her shoulders, sometimes hiding her unearthly black eyes.

I didn't know even her name, but I was so transfixed by her beauty and mysteriousness that I didn't care.

What got to me the most, was the fact that she treated me like a man. Not like a disabled person, she didn't watch if I was all right, nor did she watch me with pity.

To tell the truth her eyes did not betray her feelings at all. Her face, beautiful and strangely gentle was closed at the same time. In some ways, she reminded me of Adam. He also possessed the ability to hide his emotions under the mask of geeky researcher.

She found my CD, the one I recorded only a few months ago and put it in the stereo. The soft sound of blues and my voice filled the room as I watched her move around the room, checking the books, CD's and swaying softly to the music. There was a serene expression on her face. If there was one thing I knew about her right then, was the fact that she adored music.

I put the dishes back in the kitchen and came back to the room, but she was not there. The stereo was playing, and her shoes still were near the door so I knew she hadn't left.

So I started searching for her. Some part of me knew that inviting her to my home was a folly, idiocy. That she was here probably because she wanted something from me, but the other, the one that was left alone for so many years, the one that desperately needed assurance that I still was a man, desirable man, was stronger.

I didn't care about the consequences. I just wanted the illusion of being wanted to last just a little bit longer. 

I saw a light under the door to my bedroom and entered it cautiously. My heart was beating three times too fast. I was scared that I would find her searching my things… or something like this. So the sight that greeted me, was more surprising.

Barefoot, she was lying on her back in the middle of my bed. Her sweater was pulled slightly up, exposing her bellybutton and her hair spilled over the pillow like an ocean of sunlight.

I stood there like an idiot, with my mouth open and shock evident on my face. She wasn't doing anything provocative, just playing with her hair with one hand while the other was under her head, and looking at me with silent… acceptance.

"Why…?" I croaked. I felt the low grade desire that had accompanied me the whole evening rise to new levels, as well as dread.

She never took her black, mysterious eyes from me.

"You play incredible music." She answered simply and I remembered the look of near ecstasy on her face as she listened to my CD.

"That's not enough. Why me? I'm old… and not exactly the most desirable person while you are…"

Suddenly her eyes changed, becoming sharp and intense.

"Old." She finished my sentence. "I am old enough to see people through their inside. You have a gentle soul, quick mind and a lot of honor. I value those features. And to me, you are desirable. If it wasn't so, I wouldn't be here." She moved her legs, letting me see just how incredibly beautiful she was, letting me taste what she had to give.

"I don't even know what your name is." I said weakly, already knowing that I would do and believe anything she said.

She gave me a strange look.

"My name hadn't been spoken by anyone for a… long time." 

I shivered. What did "a long time" mean to an Immortal? A century? A millennium? 

"But I think you can call me Ash." She finished gently, still looking at me expectantly.

Slowly, I closed the bedroom door. What the hell. I might as well take what she offered.

Never in my life have I met someone as beautiful and sexy as she was. I watched with mesmerized eyes and she sat up and pulled the turtleneck over her head in one, efficient movement. There wasn't anything teasing in her movements. Just simplicity and knowledge of her beauty. She was perfectly aware of her looks and wasn't trying for any false modesty.

So I went to her, the only thing on my mind was the golden expanse of skin she revealed.

God I wanted her.

* * *

I woke up to the soft rustling of clothes. I opened my eyes and watched Ash dress. In daylight she looked even more beautiful than last night.

I went back to the night we spent together. It was the most erotic, hottest, most satisfying night of my life. Even when I was younger, when I was WHOLE, I had never had a lover like her.

I know she… did something, something to me because I could feel the light, gentle touch in the back of my mind.

And pleasure. Pleasure not only physical. Somehow she made me FEEL what she felt.

Easy acceptance of my looks.

Desire.

Admiration of my talent.

It was embarrassing, but I think that sometimes during the night I cried.

Still, I could barely understand why she allowed me to do what I pleased, to touch her…

She touched me in more ways than one and I was grateful for that. She made me feel like a man again. Never once did my legs matter. She didn't pretend she didn't notice them. She just adjusted to the situation and made me reach heaven over and over again. 

But if I have to say what was the most beautiful and moving thing she did last night, it was simply her.

The way she accepted and showed pleasure, causing her to look even more beautiful and enticing, something I am not bound to forget. Ever.

She looked at me, aware of my eyes on her. She looked just like yesterday, all the scratches and swollen lips had healed through the night, only I felt the scratches on my back and arms. And that liquid satiation.

I sat up. I wanted to ask her to stay, to promise she would come back, but I didn't. Whatever happened between us, it was probably a one time thing.

"Will I see you again, Ash?" I asked partially embarrassed by the way I sounded, partially hopeful.

Damn, I felt like a teenager.

She stopped, fully dressed now and looked back at me.

"Maybe." She said in her gentle, soft voice that never changed. I doubt she ever raised it.

She looked me in the eyes for a long, long moment and then smiled. It was an honest, real smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle even when her lips barely twitched.

"Thank you." I said quietly, still in awe. It meant so much to me. 

Thank you for making me whole again, thank you for making me feel like a man again, thank you for wanting me… all those things I wanted to say, but couldn't find the words.

Looking at her, I realized I didn't need to. She knew. 

With a last look at me, she headed to the door. When she reached them, she stopped and pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket.

"The one you are looking for can be found at this address."

She tossed the note on the table and left. Before I shook myself out of the shock, I heard the front door slam after her. 

Ash was gone.

I took the note and unfolded it. There was a list of names, starting with Adam Pierson. Seven or eight different names, probably Adam's other personalities and under it all was an address.

I had to call Duncan. I was reaching for the phone when a thought hit me.

How on earth was I going to explain this???

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

It was fucking three o' clock in the morning, and Methos was spilling his guts in the toilet. Just like almost every other night for the last six weeks.

When he left Seacover, he thought he just needed time and peace to work through the memories, but now he wasn't sure he would ever get better.

Night and day, memories tormented him. Flashbacks accompanied by horrible pain wracked his body and his mind. He became jumpy, nervous and… scared.

Never, in his long life had he taken a Quickening that fought him so strongly. He knew that the memories were caused by the Quickening. It found a way to slip into parts of his mind that were closed before and torment him with images he forgotten before to stay sane.

Now, after six weeks he knew that the memories that haunted him, were from the time of his first death. He had been 'trained" for a long, long time. His Master hadn't stop until he had broken his spirit. Till there was nothing that made Methos, and only a slave remained. 

Each night he dreamt of the tortures, the rapes, the impossible humiliation. He was stripped from dignity and humanity time and time again by the same faceless man, he still couldn't recall. Only his voice. Soft and quiet. And cruel.

He was loosing weight, but his stomach wasn't able to keep food down, when image after image sprang to his mind, so real and so live that he actually FELT it happen. He felt his body burned by fire, felt his insides being torn apart by yet another rape. Until his body had no value to him at all.

Slowly and painfully, he was deprived of every sense of self worth he had ever known. By pain, by torture, and desperation.

He closed his eyes, too exhausted to fight another memory…

* 

…the suffocating feeling of the weight on him was terrifying and welcome at the same time. The hard flesh pressed into his anus and moving inside him, marking it's possession was painfully welcome. As long as his Master used his body, he would not be punished.

He didn't mind the sharp nails that cut through his skin, or the powerful thrusts that were bound to tear him apart. The slickness on his thighs told him that he was already bleeding, but it didn't matter.

As long as his Master was pleased, he was happy too. When a strong hand closed over his mouth and nose, denying him oxygen, he didn't fight even though his hands were free.

If his Master wished him to die during the fucking, he would. There was nothing he wanted above pleasing his Master.  
Because he didn't exist. He was nothing, had no value above his Master's wishes.

That was the last thought before he felt hot cum spill into his burning insides and then darkness overwhelmed him.

*

When Methos came back to reality, he realized that his cheeks were wet from tears. His mouth tasted like bile after throwing up, his eyes burned from crying and he was exhausted. He wasn't sure how much he would be able to stand. 

"Stop it… please… let it stop…" He wasn't even aware of the whispers leaving his sore throat. 

He was so incredibly tired… so tired.

What terrified him the most in this vision, was his own surrender. He was appalled and distraught by his reaction. He wasn't even human anymore. He reacted like an animal, without his own mind, his needs, his opinions. He was forced to become a disgusting caricature of humanity and it wasn't even over.

Methos curled on the cold floor of the bathroom and prayed to all the gods he didn't believe in, to stop this torment. He couldn't stand it anymore. He felt that he would go mad…

When he felt another wave of memories closing in on him, Methos whimpered in pure terror. He would do anything, anything at all to stop it!

Not entirely aware of what he was doing, he curled his hand into a fist and hit the tiled floor, feeling the knuckles shatter under the force of the blow and watched with bleary eyes the red smear of blood on the white tiles.

Pain shot up his arm, paralyzing his hand and fingers. He clenched his fingers as not to scream in pain. It took him a moment to realize that the pressure behind his eyes, the pain that indicated another wave of memories, eased.

He stared at the healing hand, seeing the swelling ease in front of his eyes and his mind slowly made a connection. Somehow the real, physical pain grounded him, kept him in reality; not letting the memories take over him.

The part of his mind that was still capable of logical thinking, realized the need to test his theory. 

While his mind was still basically clear except from the already fading pain from his abused hand, he got up and went to his bedroom, looking for his stiletto. Getting the wickedly sharp dagger, Methos went back to the bathroom, no use in messing his bedroom, right?

He took a terry washcloth and sat on the floor, his back to the cold, white tiled wall and waited. Soon after the hand healed, he felt the pressure behind his eyes build again, the sense of something dark and unpleasant close in again. Now was the time to test his theory.

With an air of determination, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt up and pressed the stiletto to the vulnerable flesh of his forearm.

It wasn't as if he had anything to loose, right?

In one quick movement, he slashed his arm open, feeling the live blade cut deep through the muscles and veins. A tickle of blood came first then the pain. He hissed and clenched the stiletto with all his strength, trying to stifle the scream.

He watched the red rivulets of blood streaming down his pale forearm, feeling the pulsing pain and the exhilarating freedom from the pressure in his mind.

No memories, no torment… nothing except for the rush of adrenaline and pain. But physical pain was nothing in comparison to the torment of the nightmarish memories.

With disgust he watched the wound close in front of his eyes. The wound was too minor, to light… before his mind had the time to realize that he was already healed he made a parallel cut, this time making sure he cut the tendons as well as muscle and veins. He watched, with a kind of detached, horrific fascination as the blade of the stiletto sank almost three inches into his arm and actually got stuck on the bone.

He screamed and jerked the blade away, the pain becoming his only reality. All other faded… the blood streaming down his arm, on his legs and the terrycloth that was already soaked in blood.

He didn't feel the chill of the tiled walls nor the hard floor. Nothing… blessed freedom.

Methos didn't know how long he sat there, making one deep cut after another, oblivious to the blood that seemed to be EVERYWHERE. Finally, exhausted from pain and loss of blood, he slipped into a blessed obliviousness. Dead, asleep or unconscious… it didn't matter.

When he woke up the next day, his head felt as if stuffed with cotton balls, and his arm, surprisingly enough, ached a little. The deep gashes were healed, the skin under the layer of dried, disgusting blood was whole.

He cleaned himself and washed the terrycloth. He even managed to eat something, before the familiar pressure behind his eyes returned. This time he knew what to do.

His old friend, the stiletto, was already in his hand. Calmly, he made his way to the bathroom and this time he took his clothes out and filled the tub with hot water. He knew that the steam from the hot bath and loss of blood along with pain should exhaust him three times faster than just cutting himself.

He lowered himself in the too hot water, feeling it burn his skin. He hissed but didn't add the cold water, because even as he forced his body, against each instinct he had, to stay in the scolding water, he felt the pressure behind his eyeballs ease, the memories kept at bay by the sheer physical pain; the only thing that was grounding him to the reality.

But soon his skin got used to the hot water, his Quickening healing him too fast and the memory took him by surprise…

*

… The taste of dirt and grass in his mouth as he strained to catch breath. The feel of a sandaled foot at the nape of his neck pressing him face down into the dirt, showing each and everyone around him that this slave kneeling at his feet was his property.

The sheer humiliation, the enormity of the cruelty at being held in such a position seared through him, waking something dark and ugly in his chest …ł

*

Methos jerked back to reality, his skin clammy and heart beating furiously in his chest as the last traces of the memory hovered on the edges of his mind. He couldn't stand it… he just couldn't stand the humiliation and terror of the memories and with one angry movement he slashed a deep gash in his forearm, welcoming the pain as the knight in white armor that it was. Without any conscious thought he stared at the bleeding wounds, saw the water turn pink and then burgundy and felt his eyes roll slowly backwards.

The last thought before he lost consciousness was that it took longer for the wounds to heal than it took the day before…

* * *

Duncan looked at the large house in the valley. There, he was supposed to find Methos.

After a cryptic conversation with Joe, who seemed very nervous about the source of this information, he caught the first plane to Russia. It took him almost a week traveling, by train at first, then by car to reach this place. It was in the middle of nowhere. And it was cold.

There were 250 kilometers to the nearest town, and from what he gathered from the people living there, the mansion was built on Holy Ground. A perfect hiding place for a haunted Immortal.

Mac was determined to talk to Methos. This time he would not be surprised, nor would he allow Methos to scare him away.

During the weeks he searched for the older Immortal, still remembering the haunted look of his eyes, just before he left, he realized few things.

First, it absolutely didn't matter what Methos did in his past. 

Second… he loved the irritating man.

It was as simple as that.

Sighing, Duncan got into the rented car and started the engine. With his mind set, he directed the car on the road leading to the old mansion.

When he was finally on the driveway, he stopped the car beside the one already standing there and got out.

He leaned over the mask and checked his katana. All he had to do now was wait. He could feel Methos's Presence, so his friend no doubt, could feel him too. It was a matter of time before he came to him.

This time Mac was not going to lose.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9

Whatever Mac was expecting to see, this was not it.

When the door opened, he expected to see Methos like he was seven weeks ago, aggressive, a little confused and so very dangerous. He remembered the fluid movements of his body, the obviously sensual aura around him.

What he saw, however, shocked him to the core.

Methos looked like the living dead.

His skin was so gray, it could be considered a joke if not the sheer agony in his face. He had bags under his eyes - the skin loose and almost black. His usually sharp cheekbones were now jutting out like knives from under the thin skin above the hollows of his cheeks. He looked as if he lost at least half of his weight. The clothes that were always too big for him were now sliding from his nearly starved frame.

His hair was dirty and matted, framing a face with strangely hollow eyes. They were a strange green-gold mixture, but not his usual interesting shift of colors that betrayed his emotions even when his face was stoic. They looked… dead.

Methos stood in a thin cotton shirt and jeans that were riding low on his hips. His hands, usually smooth and graceful, were skinny, with the skin stretched tightly on them, allowing Duncan to see each and every little bone and tendon, even from where he stood.

Methos was also having obvious trouble with breathing. His chest was heaving with each wheezing breath he struggled to take. 

There was no sword in his hands. It meant that he recognized Mac from his signature, or what Duncan was more willing to believe, he didn’t care.

“My God Methos! What happened to you?!” Mac couldn’t stay quiet any more. It hurt him to see his friend in such obvious pain.

The golden-green eyes moved to him slowly and Duncan could see the obvious effort it took Methos to focus on him. 

Mac wasn’t sure Methos recognized him at all. But the man pushed himself from the door frame and staggered into the house, leaving the door open.

Duncan felt his throat clench when he followed the man uncertainly and saw that he had to lean on the wall to be able to walk at all. Swaying and staggering, Methos managed to reach the large living room and collapse on the sofa, absolutely oblivious to the other Immortal.

“Methos… what is going on?”

He looked like he was deadly sick, but Immortals didn’t get sick!  
“How… did you… find me?” Asked the Old Man, not opening his eyes, between the shallow, wheezing breaths. It hurt Duncan to even listen to it.

“Through a friend. Joe found out your alias and then this address.” Duncan hesitated for a moment “Do you remember me? Or Joe?”

Adam gave a little shake of his head.

“No… although there were… few images… Joe is about sixty? There is something with his legs…” His voice trailed off when his strength left him.

“Yes. He lost his legs in Vietnam.”

Methos didn’t answer. He just sank deeper into the sofa, not caring about MacLeod. If he wanted to take his head, Methos was willing, even to borrow him his own sword.

He’d had enough of this shit.

He barely managed to crawl out of bed and pull some clothes on when he felt the other Immortal’s presence. Somehow he knew it was MacLeod. He remembered the unique, powerful signature from their earlier encounter in his apartment in Seacover.

The strain of walking down and opening the door exhausted him completely and all he wanted was to fall asleep and forget about everything. If he was lucky, maybe he would be able to sleep for a while, before the nightmares begun.

He actually started drifting away when the pressure behind his eyes returned. With effort, he forced himself back from the edge of sleep. He had to get out of the Highlander’s sight. He had to get to the bathroom…

He had to make sure that the Scot would stay there and not follow him.

Wearily, he managed to get to his feet, swaying a little. 

“Stay here.” He croaked through his sore throat and staggered onto the dark stairs leading to the upper level where his bedroom was.

* * *

Duncan watched him nearly crawl up the stairs and sighed. He had to help   
Methos. The very fact that Methos allowed him into his house was probably a desperate plea for help. If Methos felt good, he would never let his guard down around a strange Immortal.

Something was very, very wrong.

Not wanting to aggravate the weakened Immortal and loose the chance to help him, Duncan decided to let him have some privacy. He was not going away from here without Methos, so he decided it was time to start acting. First things first.

He went back to the car and took the bags out. First, he would check the kitchen, providing he would be able to find it in this monster of a house, and cook something healthy. Methos looked as if he weighted half of what he should. 

He also had to set his lap-top and send an e-mail to Joe, letting him know that he found their runaway Immortal.

* * *

His legs gave out when he was already in the bathroom. The pressure in his head was strong, he knew that it was only seconds before the memories came back suffocating him, and he had not the time or strength to close the door. He slid to the floor and took hold of the stiletto.

Pulling the sleeve up, he stared at the barely closed wounds. Twelve hours and they weren’t healed yet. Even his Quickening seemed exhausted…

Clenching his teeth he made another cut on his forearm, near the elbow, since there was no place lower, and stopped only when the blade grazed the bone. Blood burst out, bleeding purposefully and some part of Methos’s mind realized that he was probably going to bleed to death, but he couldn’t force himself to care.

All he wanted was to escape the memories…he wanted it to stop.

* * *

Duncan shut the notebook and looked at the stairs with a frown. It was already an hour since Methos left him, and there was no sign of the older Immortal. Macleod sent a note to Joe, and started dinner, not really surprised when he realized that the kitchen was almost empty. 

Thank god he was prepared for this, and had brought supplies with him. Actually, he was prepared for camping outside Methos’s house if the older Immortal refused to let him in, but it proved unnecessary.

Still he was worried about his friend. He looked so sick and broken, that Duncan was at a loss what to do.

Suddenly, he frowned. Something changed. He wasn’t sure what it was… when he realized what the problem was, he was on his feet and running upstairs at top speed.

He couldn’t feel Methos’ Presence anymore!

The second floor was a long corridor with doors on the both sides. Quickly he started opening and checking every door, until he found bedroom that looked inhabited. However there was no sign of Methos. 

Looking around wildly, he caught sight of other doors, deeper in the room and noticed they were ajar. When he pushed them open and stepped into a small, white tiled bathroom, his stomach turned.

Bile rose to his throat at the horror in front of him.

The white floor, towels, even the walls were covered in blood. It formed sickening pools on the floor and smudges on the walls. There were also splashes of burgundy droplets, evidence of the fury behind the blows that caused them. 

But the worst was still to be found. There, in the corner, half sitting, half lying on the floor was Methos. Eyes closed, face pale… his shirt dirty and stained with blood. His right hand was clutching a sharp stiletto while the sleeve of the other was pushed up, and exposing the sickening sight.

There were about twenty parallel cuts… deep cuts, that weren’t healing. Judging from the state of the bathroom, it wasn’t the first time Methos cut himself.

He wanted to run from that place, run from that stench of old and fresh blood and death, and leave the terrifying sight behind. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave, couldn’t leave his friend like this.

Swallowing around the bile in his throat, he leaned over the dead figure on the floor and gathered it in his arms. He gasped when he picked Methos up without the slightest strain. The man was only skin and bones. It sent another wave of sickness through him when he realized that he weighed not more than a child.

He needed to clean first him, then the bathroom and make sure Methos was resting comfortably. 

Although the sluggish tempo of healing was worrying Mac, he was sure that Methos would revive eventually. As long as his head was intact, he would be all right.

He decided that it would be fastest to bath the older Immortal while he was dead. This way he wouldn’t need to fight him at every step.

Trying not to notice the blood stains all over the place, Mac started filling the bath with warm water and sat the limp body on the toilet, leaning him on the wall while he undressed him.

He pulled the soiled shirt up and gasped at the sight of ribs jutting out from the thin skin. There was almost no flesh, no muscle on Methos. Only skin, bones and tendons. He suspected that if he didn’t die from the loss of blood, he would probably die of starvation.

He took the shoes and socks off, noticing that his feet were as skinny as his hands and then pulled the jeans down along with the boxers. He expected to feel a little bit awkward at undressing Methos considering his attraction to the man, but nothing like that happened. Watching this skinny, tormented body, Duncan felt only grief and sadness. He desperately wanted to help, to ease his friend’s pain, but as long as Methos wouldn’t talk to him, all he could to was make sure he would be clean and fed.

Sighing, he pulled the naked, still limp body up and carried him to the water, intent on cleaning him and taking care of the wounds, that only now stopped bleeding. Normally, there would be no sign of them by now, but there was something very wrong with Methos.

All he could do right now, was wait for the older Immortal to wake up.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10

Entering the loft wasn’t as hard as she expected it to be. When she was inside, she stopped for a moment to look around.

She liked it. Spacious and cozy at the same time, but it wasn’t what convinced her. It was the FEEL of the place. She closed her eyes and let her senses run free, absorbing each and every sensation through her very being.

She opened her eyes with a small smile.

Duncan MacLeod was certainly a warm person, but she could also detect faint traces of the one she was looking for.

The Ancient One.

With a spark in her eye she noticed the stereo. She really should have awakened earlier. Who would have known that this century would provide her with such music?

Smiling, she hovered over the shelf with CD’s, trying to FEEL which one was used the most, and when she selected one, she plucked it out. Soon the soft, jazz sounds filled the air and she smiled again.

Maybe she would keep this body and stay longer. It could be fun…

But she had something else to do. She needed to find a close, personal possession of Duncan MacLeod. It was… she couldn’t remember how long, since she last tried to connect with a person.

She sighed and set for the search. How the hell was she going to find, contact and then send her energy to an untrained Immortal? But after all, what was happening, was her own fault. She had slept for too long, allowing the Other Side to gain strength and find the Ancient One.

That should have never happened. Methos was not going to be able to survive that again. His mind would not stand the strain and he would go mad.

Feeling uneasy with the first stirrings of guilt, something she wasn’t sure that she could still feel, she homed on the strongest feeling. Soon, she found a big chest. She didn’t need to open it, to know what was inside.

The feeling that came off of it was a sure indication, that it was very personal, and very important to Duncan MacLeod.

Listening to the music, she sat cross-legged on the floor and put both hands on the chest. Slowly, she started the process of finding the unique signature of the man’s personality…

* * *

Methos blinked at the ceiling in his bedroom. He was lying on his bed… and couldn’t remember how he got there, which wasn’t a good thing.

His mind was sluggish and his sight bleary. He had a vague feeling of exhaustion and his throat was raw. Strangely, he seemed thirsty all the time lately.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone in the room. A powerful, familiar signature was close and he moved his head, not without exertion, to look around.

And there he was. Sitting in the chair next to the bed, dressed in a soft sweater and dark jeans, with his hair tied back and face drawn into a frown, was Duncan MacLeod.

Watching him.

“I…” Started Methos, vaguely surprised by the rawness of his voice, “I think I fell asleep…” He said cautiously, not sure how much the other man knew.

Suddenly, what surprised him the most, was the burning shame that coursed through him. If he hadn’t been so weak, he would probably have blushed.

“No.” Came the terse response, the anger in Duncan’s words evident. “You died.” He said firmly, holding Methos’s gaze with his own. “To be exact, you first starved yourself nearly to death and when that didn’t work, you cut yourself open till you bled to death.”

Methos winced internally. So Duncan must have found him in the bathroom. And cleaned him, judging from the state of his clothing, or rather the lack thereof. 

Bloody fucking fantastic.

Some part of Methos’ mind told him that it was strange for him, unnatural, to be so emotionally unstable. But, considering the course of the last weeks, he really was exhausted.

What surprised him was the fact that he felt… ashamed of his actions under that dark, angry gaze of the Highlander. What was it in that man that affected Methos so strongly?

Even seven weeks ago in his apartment in Seacover, he hadn’t been able to permanently kill the guy. The physical attraction was strong. He couldn’t stop noticing the way the Scot moved, the way his powerful, yet still very graceful body managed to combine beauty and sheer power. There was something primal in the way Methos craved that power.

During the few moments when he was able to sleep, he dreamt of running his hands over the tense muscles with oil, making them glisten. He imagined how the proud warrior would look carefully arranged and exposed, with skin shining with oil, dark hair loose over his shoulders and eyes half lidded with desire.

But now was not the time for such thought. Methos was tired. Tired and angry, and scared almost out of his mind. 

The flashbacks took complete control of his life. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t even bloody function at all. The memories came more and more often, throwing him back into the time when pain and absolute humiliation was how his life looked. It was everything.

And it wasn’t just memory… no. It was as if he was there, felt it each time. As if everything was happening to him over and over again. No wonder that his mind decided to lock it away from him for 5, 000 years!

With a considerable effort, he looked at the man in the chair. Even with his attraction to him, even with the memory of strong emotions triggered during their last meeting, he was a STRANGER to Methos. The oldest Immortal had no memories of him.

During their last encounter, he hadn’t even wanted to hear about their so called friendship, not believing in the story. 

He was old, lived through a lot and he learned a few things. Maybe slowly, but he DID learn. And what he knew is that his attraction, his strange vulnerability to this man was his weakness. In his world everything was about domination or submission. If Duncan affected him like that, he had power over him. And Methos didn’t like that at all. Too many times he was used and enslaved because of his weaknesses. 

But, like with everything else, there was another side of the coin. He was weak. Weak and so tired that he didn’t really care what the Highlander wanted to do. However there was a kind of peace, a certain calm in the man. Even now, obviously disturbed, sitting there with a frown, with a sword probably somewhere near and Methos felt an odd sense of… trust. 

Somehow, even absolutely defenseless, he felt SAFE in the man’s company.

How very… odd.

“Tell me what is wrong Methos.” Duncan asked softly, as if following Methos’ train of thought and sensing his advantage. “Why do you hurt yourself?”

Duncan strained not to show how disturbed, how terrified he was. Even now, hours after finding Methos, he couldn’t shake off the shock of seeing so much blood.

He was a warrior, an Immortal. He saw and spilled an ocean of blood. But each time, it had a certain purpose. The blood was always a side effect. 

Seeing so much of it, and KNOWING that Methos did it to himself was something he couldn’t understand at all. If anything, Methos was a survivalist. It was his main imperative, his finely honed instinct. 

Why would he hurt himself?

Duncan wasn’t as naïve as most thought him. The fact that he CHOSE to see goodness in people, to have optimistic view on the world and faith in others, didn’t mean that he didn’t understand pain.

Before maybe, but ever since meeting the Old Man, he forced Duncan to look at everything from angles he would never imagine and he had learned a great deal about himself.

About the darkness that lurked in each of them. But even then he decided, consciously, that it wasn’t everything. Yes, he knew about the potential violence each of them was capable of, Immortals even more so, but it wasn’t the ONLY thing he saw.

He understood that physical pain helped Methos to avoid something even worse. The question was, what?

“Let me help you.” Asked the Highlander softly, repeating the words uttered seven weeks ago in Seacover, and reaching to touch the older Immortal’s arm in a soothing gesture.

This time however, Methos listened.

* * *

Ash opened her golden eyes, staring unseeing into the space before her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of MacLeod’s loft for God knows how long, trying to sense the other Immortal, to find his unique signature among thousands of others.

“Got you.” She murmured softly.

She was surprised at the unconscious resistance of the man. Duncan MacLeod was never trained in any of mental skills she possessed. He was such a weak and harmless creature to her, so when her mind slammed into a wall that denied her access to his Quickening and his mind, she was more than bewildered.

It shouldn’t be like this. There were only few left who knew how to shield.

One of them would rather fry MacLeod’s mind than teach him something. The second wouldn’t dare defy her, the third one didn’t even REMEMBER how to do this.

Still… she had to do it now, to establish a connection between herself and Duncan MacLeod, and through him to the Ancient One.

Carefully, as not to loose her hold on MacLeod’s signature she scanned the vicinity of the Immortal, looking for something that would help her understand this sudden development.

The only thing she sensed was the weak sense of the Ancient One.

He was in great pain and his signature was weak and troubled. But there was something familiar in it… something that there should NOT be.

An echo.

In a flash she understood what it was. His and the Highlander’s Quickening were connected!

But how? She didn’t know. She had to find more information about the relationship between Duncan MacLeod and the Ancient One. How was it possible that they were sharing a small part of each other’s Quickening? And how would that affect the events?

She also realized that she couldn’t access MacLeod’s mind because Methos was unconsciously shielding him. 

Not only their Quickening coexisted, but their minds on an unconscious level also. An interesting development, she wasn’t sure how to judge yet.

Now however, she had something to do. Establishing a connection with the Highlander was essential to her plans, and she had no choice.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated her life energy, her Quickening and slammed into the shield protecting Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11

Duncan opened his eyes and blinked to clear his mind. He felt strange - raw, exhausted and excited at the same time. It was a familiar state of mind and body to him. It was always a side effect of taking a Quickening.

He blinked again, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. He was aware of another Presence, but instinctively knew it was no threat to him.

And then it all came back.

He was with Methos, he had finally found the Old Man. Duncan looked around. He was in Methos’ bedroom, sitting in an armchair beside the bed. Methos was laying prostrate on it with his eyes closed, his skinny chest raising and falling in shallow, even breaths.

It looked as if Mac had just only blinked, but when he looked at the watch he realized that somehow he had managed to loose three hours!

He closed his eyes for a moment trying to remember what happened.

He was sitting in the same place, in the armchair, watching Methos revive. Then they started talking and at last when the older man had decided to trust him, he felt something… Like a sense of other Immortal, the faint echo of a Presence.

The next thing he knew, he opened his eyes, having lost three hours from his memory. 

A low moan full of terror filled the room. He looked down on the sleeping figure and held his breath. Methos’s face was twisted in an expression of terror and his body started straining as if fighting against invisible hands. His breathing became fast and shallow - panicked. His already grayish skin was covered in sweat.

Instantly concerned, Duncan reached out to touch the other man, to reassure him and himself that everything was all right. Whatever happened, they were alive and safe… or he hoped they were.

When he touched the naked, chilled forearm, he jerked his hand back with a surprised yelp. A tiny spark of energy, nothing more than a static shock shot from his fingertips and into Methos’s flesh.

* * *

Methos was dreaming. Even now he could feel the foreboding pressure behind his eyes. He tried to will himself to wake up, but the nightmare was already too close for Methos to be able to free himself…

.… the blow sent him reeling on the hard, stone floor. The pain of his bony knees hitting the floor was fighting for first place with the sharp sting of the skin being literally peeled from his body when his naked form slid over the hard floor. He was a little dizzy and weak from hunger and exhaustion; already he couldn’t remember why on earth he’d defied his Master again.

“Slave… you disappoint me. This time I decided that having a teacher would substantially… improve your manners.” The voice was soft, almost gentle, as always and he shivered. He had learned that each word, each gesture from his Master would only bring him more pain.

He curled on the floor, knowing that every attempt to rise to his feet would be ruthlessly punished. His naked body ached in so many places, his insides still tender, still healing from the rough way the Master had used his body just moments ago, pinning him to the bed and fucking him until blood was running down his thighs. Then he finished and ordered him to ‘serve’ two of the guards in the room. 

He was scared, but most of all still bleeding from the rape and the very thought of willingly offering his body to be used no less brutally, chilled him to the bone. He could feel their lustful, disgusted eyes on him; his naked body exposed to their every whim. 

He wished for a piece of clothing to cover himself, to be able to hide his stark vulnerability from those men, but of course because of this, he was not allowed to have any. 

He wondered how he would be punished this time. The sense of terror rose, filling his chest and making it hard to breathe. Then, he saw one of the guards take a wide, metal collar with sharp spikes lining the inside and started closing on him.

No… not this… please. He wanted to scream, to escape to fight his way out of there, but before he had even the time to utter a sound, he was grabbed by the hair and his head was jerked back.

No!!!!!!!!!!!

* * *

Suddenly the scene disappeared. Some part of his mind knew he was still asleep, but the terrifying images faded. He felt something warm and… tingling… on his forearm. It was pleasant and seemed to be radiating a blessed sense of peace that quickly enveloped his body, letting him relax for the first time in a long, long time…

* * *

Duncan watched, mesmerized as the panicked breathing slowed and Methos relaxed on the bed, obviously calmed and he began to wake up slowly.

Tentatively, Mac reached out his hand again and touched the forearm, feeling the tingling again and almost seeing the blue sparks leaving his body. He felt a slight pull on his mind; a strange, but not unpleasant feeling.

In an instant of unusual awareness, he could almost sense Methos calming down from his nightmare. As if he was connected to him in a way…

Acting only on his instincts, he kept his hand in contact with Methos’ body at all times, somehow sensing that whatever was happening had a good effect on his troubled friend. 

He leaned closer and started whispering softly to Methos, hoping that the low, even sound of his voice would guide him to consciousness gently. He hated seeing so much fear and anguish on the usually calm face. 

Asleep, with his body so weak from starvation, he looked almost like a child. Young, hurt and so utterly helpless. Duncan wanted to protect him, to wrap him in his love and heal him so that he would be strong again. He knew the Old Man enough to know that being weak, being dependant on anybody was Methos’ worst fear. He hated it with such passion that probably had a source deeply rooted in his past.

Suddenly, Methos blinked and his almost golden eyes found Duncan’s immediately. Methos didn’t seem surprised at all that Mac was so close, that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, with one his hand resting on the chilled forearm, and other stroking the damp from fear-sweat forehead.

Methos’s eyes were wide and full of some warm feeling, while his body was relaxed under Mac’s hands. However, it lasted only a split second. In a matter of one heartbeat, his eyes went distant and his face was carefully schooled from any emotion, while his body that seemed relaxed, was in truth ready to tense and bolt at any moment.

Duncan got too close, too personal with this man’s demons. Usually, Mac would just back off, give him space and time to get himself back under control but not this time. He loved that man for God’s sake! He was going to fight for him, even if he had to fight him to do this.

Once he let him go, gave him time, and what Methos brought himself into was enough proof. He may be the world’s Oldest Immortal, but he sure as hell was in no state to fight this battle on his own.

“What is going on Methos? What was this? Nightmare? It didn’t look like it. Your breathing pattern was different and your eyes weren’t moving. You were NOT dreaming. So what? Why are you in this shape? I know you. You LOVE simple creature comforts. Good food, good beer, good books… this place… there are no books here! No television, no radio! Nothing. You are so starved and exhausted that even your Quickening can’t heal you. You kept cutting yourself open so many times, that you died of it! And why, for the love of God, isn’t your Quickening healing the wounds?” He said in a hard, unyielding voice. He would not relent until the man gave up and told him what was wrong. “What is so terrifying that you are mutilating your body to escape it?!” 

Methos only looked at Duncan. The older man could still feel the surprising warmth radiating from the younger Immortal’s hand that, blessedly, seemed to drive the pressure behind his eyes away. Somehow, the simple touch, the presence of Duncan MacLeod kept his memories at bay. He looked into the dark, concerned eyes and felt something in his chest tighten. There was so much goodness, so much true caring that Methos wanted to trust him. But he had lived through too much to believe that what he wanted was actually good for him. Duncan was a threat to him, because he already knew too much. On the other side, he was the only thing that seemed to stop the memories except pain.

And there was that little voice in his mind that told him that he was too tired and too weak to actually be able to turn Duncan down. And it would feel so good to be cared about…

Quickly, Methos shook himself from such thoughts. It was not true. He didn’t need anybody. Ever.

MacLeod leaned even closer to him, his tirade winding down. And the closer the man was, the more the soft, warm feeling of soothing energy increased. There was a vague feeling of familiarity in it… and when he looked into the dark, deep eyes he suddenly remembered.

… pain, pain that was his sole company for so long suddenly disappeared. He could feel warm hands on his forehead. Gentle, feminine hands touching him with gentleness that he hadn’t experienced in… never. 

He opened his eyes to look into black, secretive eyes and a quiet voice murmuring to him:

“Open yourself to my energy. Let it take away the pain. It’s ok… you are safe here… it’s ok…”

And the warm feeling of energy, strange energy that seemed like a Quickening, but without its horrible pain and aggression. Just a warm, soothing life force…

Methos blinked and looked into bewildered eyes exactly as his own.

“What…” He started and then stopped when he realized what was going on. “Did you…”

Duncan nodded.

“Who… who was she?” Duncan asked and then looked at his hands, still in contact with Methos’s flesh and Methos could see the realization dawn on him. He jerked his hands away.

“Am I doing the same thing?”

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12

Duncan was staring at his hands half terrified amazement.

“How?” He asked. “How is it possible that I shared my Quickening with you?”

Methos sighed and pushed himself up so that he could sit on the bed. He pulled the sheet tighter around himself, suddenly very self conscious of his skinny body. God knows he should be used to being naked after being a slave or a Master so many times, but something about Duncan MacLeod made him feel vulnerable again.

“I don’t know how!” He snapped more aggravated with his strange vulnerability towards this man than his perfectly justifiable questions. He was as confused as the Scot, maybe even more.

Duncan looked at him. Methos expected some angry reply, but the man obviously seemed to swallow any angry retort and just looked at him for a long, disturbing moment.

“It’s ok Methos… You don’t have to be afraid. Your memories are safe with me. You can trust me. I swear that I won’t tell anybody about anything I might have seen or will see.”

“You seem awfully accepting Highlander!” Snapped Methos, still shaken by the intimacy they felt by sharing that bloody memory.

“I…” Mac hesitated for a moment then obviously decided to continue. “I think I know why it happened.”

“Oh? So please, do enlighten me!” Sarcasm was dripping off of every word.

Duncan looked down at Methos’s forearm and waited until the other man followed his gaze. His eyes widened when he saw that his arm, that mere minutes ago was covered in barely healing wounds, was now smooth and unmarked.

“I think that my Quickening healed you and while touching you, I passed you the energy and in effect became linked with you for that moment. When you remembered… I saw what you saw.”

Methos literally froze when the meaning of the words sunk in. Having the energy passed felt good. His mind was clear and body stronger. But the very possibility that Duncan may have seen his memories, the disgusting nightmares, chilled him.

No, not under any circumstances should MacLeod see his nightmares. Never.

Consciously, Methos ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that whispered that maybe there was something more about his sudden reaction to the Scot. Maybe it was him who prompted the connection? Maybe he wanted someone to help? To share the burden?

He ignored the stray thoughts and focused on the situation.  
“Well Sherlock, what do you suggest we do now?”

He rolled to the side of the bed intent on dressing and having this conversation on equal ground. No reason to give the man more advantage by staying in bed.

Once again, Duncan failed to rise to the bait.

“Tell me what is tormenting you.” There was steel in the voice, determination that was absent before.

“Why should I…” Started Methos sarcastically, but was interrupted.

“Because you are weak and in no shape to fight me. If you force me, I will kill you and then wait until you share my Quickening again to heal, because yours isn’t working as it should. Who knows what I would see?”

“You wouldn’t dare…”

Mac didn’t answer. He just stood on the other side of the bed - dark, powerful and deadly calm. There was no hesitation in him, only grim determination that was better left unchallenged.

To make the matters worse Methos could feel just how week he was. Vertigo was already trying to overwhelm his body and his knees felt like jelly.

He was in no condition to fight right now. He would give the man what he wanted then use his opportunity to live, grow stronger and then would strike back. No sense in rushing things.

“That day in Seacover when you came to my apartment… I took a Quickening. A strong and bizarre one. I couldn’t remember the fight, nor who I fought. The only thing I knew was that I started getting these flashbacks… memories.”

“His memories?”

Methos shook his head and continued dressing while talking.

“Mine… just I don’t remember having them earlier.”

“What kind of memories?”

“Old ones… from the Beginning.”

“You told me that you don’t remember your origin, nor your life as a mortal, nor your first death only your first Quickening.”

Methos stared at him for a long moment, shocked that he had revealed so much about his past to this man.

“The memories are… I guess just after my first death. I didn’t know what I was. I think I was captured by someone… I never se his face, only his voice and it terrifies me. I called him Master. He owned me. In these memories… I am being… trained. He wanted to break me…” His voice became more quiet and soft, so that Mac had to strain to hear it, but he was loathe to interrupt, in case Methos would stop talking all together.

“I not only remember it… I feel it. Each time he beat me to death, each time he tortured me… humiliated me… in every single way he could. I can see him, feel the excruciating pain of my flesh being flayed from by bones by a heavy whip. I can smell my blood and the heat of the desert sun… I live through it over and over again. I have no control whatsoever over the flashbacks.” Methos looked with strange sense of detachment at his shaking hands “It happens day and night. There is this strange kind of pressure just behind my eyes… and then wham… I'm on the floor, my mind thousands of years away… it hurts so much… I didn’t starve myself MacLeod. I simply couldn’t hold anything I ate. The pictures… it was too much. I threw up every time.” He licked his dry lips.

Mac looked at him and felt his heart break because of all those things that weren’t said. The horror, the pain that drew Methos on the verge of madness. Terror that exhausted him so much that death seemed a welcome distraction.

“Then I hurt myself… accidentally and realized that simple physical pain was clearing my mind. At least for a while. Anything was better than living over and over again through the ‘lessons’ that were supposed to break me. I think that back then I didn’t know who or what I was. It seemed as if the Master had all the power - over me, over life and death itself. He killed me over and over again and I kept coming back to more and more pain.

Duncan clenched his teeth at the sudden surge of pure hatred that coursed through him. It was rare for him, to really hate somebody, but right now, he wished he could kill that sonofabitch that tormented Methos so many centuries ago.

“I am not sure, but I think that my… training… lasted at least few decades. I… he broke me. Absolutely and completely extracted any sense of self from me, turning me into a perfect slave. There wasn’t even me… just his wishes and his pleasure…” Methos seemed lost in dark memories, not aware that he was speaking the words aloud.

“What happened when I touched you? You were having another flashback, right?” Asked Duncan, eager to stop the flow of terrifying words.

He watched Methos look at him, a slightly off balance look, as if he remembered something, probably the flashback, and then flushed bright red, averting his eyes.

It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was shame and Duncan swallowed. He never saw Methos ashamed. What horror, what humiliation must he remember? And relive again and again?

Methos looked at the wall until he knew he was in control again. The memory of how easily he let the Master take him, how he was GLAD because his Master wanted to fuck him, made him suddenly uneasy.

Logically, he knew that it was a normal reaction. He’d been tortured and conditioned for a few decades for God’s sake! But still… the memory was too vivid, too fresh to let him feel at ease.

He hated this vulnerability. He breathed deeply, forcing the shame and guilt out of his body along with the expelled air.

“Yes. I was having another… flashback. Then suddenly it stopped. You stopped it.”

“When I touched you?” Asked Duncan.

Methos shook his head. 

“No… at least I don’t think so. Now we aren’t touching, but I can’t feel the pressure on my eyes either.”

“I don’t understand.”

Methos licked his lips again, still unsure of his theory.

“I think it’s because I am in the range of your Presence.”

Suddenly, Methos looked at him again, his eyes narrowed and speculative.

“Wait a moment.” He looked at the watch behind Mac’s shoulder and then looked at the Highlander again. He was sure it was much, much earlier…

“Where…” He started, but stopped unsure how to ask about three lost hours?

“We lost three hours Methos.” Duncan supplied in a soft voice.

“What do you mean, lost?”

“Do you remember when you woke up? We started talking and then there was this strange feeling. Like a Presence… just for a heartbeat and the next thing I remember is opening my eyes, sitting exactly in the same position… three hours later. You know what happened next.”

“If what you said is true, it would mean that I lost my memory from what? Three to four years back… maybe not lost but my memory altered, erasing any memory of you and events tied to you from my memory. Simultaneously, I got this really nice little package of flashbacks that well nearly killed me. Tell me Highlander, why I don’t believe it’s a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe it either. I don’t know who you were fighting with, but when you come back to Seacover, we could try to find out.”

Methos raised his brows.

“I am not going anywhere.”

Duncan bit his tongue before he started yelling at the stubborn man, didn’t he understand that he needed help?! And that Duncan was willing to give it to him? 

No of course not. If anything, Methos was absolutely self-sufficient. Or he liked to believe he was and any loss of memory wouldn’t change it.

Methos’ gold-green eyes watched him with an unreadable expression, but Duncan could tell that Methos was not trusting him. The way his body was tense and ready to fight or flee.

Suddenly, he couldn’t stand looking at Methos form the other side of the room. The man’s pain was palpable, nearly substantial in the room and he wanted to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be okay. But he knew that if he tried this, he could get his head bitten off.

Methos has kept his deadly tongue on a leash, but could strike at any moment. Suddenly, the eyes changed to pure green and hardened, and Duncan knew that whatever was going on in that head of his, it wasn’t good. Not for Duncan anyway… 

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13

Methos watched the concern and sadness in the Highlander’s eyes and considered his situation.

His thoughts were getting clearer and clearer with every passing minute, now that he was free from that mind numbing, terrifying pressure behind his eyes. 

Right now, he was particularly vulnerable, dependant on the Scot. He was able to think straight only because the man’s Presence somehow stopped the rush of flashbacks. 

Ergo - Duncan MacLeod was the key to his survival. Now, Methos had to make sure that the man won’t lose his interest in him. At least not until he was strong enough to fight for himself.

During his long life, Methos sometimes had to fight for his survival, sometimes had to show his belly to the stronger one and wait for his opportunity. Sometimes… he had to make sure he would be in the ‘wanted’ category of goods…

“Why are you here Highlander?”

Duncan instantly froze when he heard the smooth, controlled voice. He recognized danger for what it was.

“Because we are friends and I was worried about you.”

Methos cocked his head to the side and moved closer to Mac, circling the bed and never taking his cat like eyes from the Highlander.

“I think I already told you that I don’t believe we could be friends.”

Duncan swallowed and backed off a bit when the sleek, sensual creature from the earlier encounter was back. He felt strangely self conscious under the golden stare.

“And I told you that you are mistaken.”

Methos was now so close that Duncan could smell the rich scent of the other man’s skin.

“I am never friends with people who want to fuck me.”

“I don’t…”

“Oh really?” Methos interrupted him with a laugh. It was a low, sensual sound that went straight to Duncan’s cock, enveloping him with heat and making his heart beat triple time.

Before he had the time to react, Mac felt warm, firm lips on his pressing for a hard, lustful kiss.   
The lips moved in a skilled, sure way over his, drawing a helpless moan out of him. God, how he wanted that man!

Methos pushed at him, forcing him to back off without him realizing it until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he sat abruptly, Methos lips still following him, never breaking the kiss.

Instinctively, Duncan caught the thin arms and pulled him closer, trying to envelop him in his arms, hold him close. To him the sudden, sharp desire was not only lust but also something more. The overwhelming urge to take care of the other man was inseparably intertwined with his desire for him. His hands found their way under the soft sweater and felt the slightly cool skin of the other man’s back. He felt a light shiver that traveled along Methos’ body when he touched the prominent back bone. Something in his chest tightened when he felt just how skinny the other man was, how incredibly fragile… and how much pain he was in.

He tried to break the devouring kiss, to disentangle himself from the other man, but found he couldn’t. Although thin, Methos was still very strong, a corded wiry strength of tendons kept his face in place as Methos’s tongue quested and searched his mouth as if it was starving for his taste.

It wasn’t easy. Not because of the tight hold Methos had on him, but because of the feeling of the quicksilver body in his lap, writhing and literally thrumming with passion was too much.

Before he had the time to think he let go he was caught in the whirlwind of passion and lust while the elegant, long fingered hands that skimmed over his body were pulling, stroking, scratching…

Something deep and primal answered the silent call of that thin, moist, slightly swollen mouth and Duncan heard himself growl and squeeze the naked flesh a little tighter, letting his nails scratch the delicate flesh of his sides.

Some part of him rebelled at this. It was not right. It was sex, lust… dark, intense… an animalistic desire that stole his breath away and drowned his mind in a red haze of want bordering with aggression.

It wasn’t right. He LOVED Methos. He wanted to make love to him…

“Methos… I…” Duncan tried to force the words from his tight throat, his lungs robbed of oxygen weren’t helping at all.

But Methos wasn’t going to help him. The eyes, now stark golden with pupils dilated so that only a thin band of gold was left locked on him again, and they seemingly set his blood on fire.

Long slender fingers slid into his hair and tightened almost painfully, tilting his head back at an inconvenient angle and lips sealed over his again so perfectly that he had to share his breath with Methos. The other body writhed over him, pressing, caressing, enflaming with each twist, each movement and teeth scraping, biting his lips until he bled.

The taste of blood in his mouth, the painful grip of hands in his hair, the thick air that seemed to carry no oxygen, pushed Mac over the edge. With a low, dangerous growl he flexed his powerful muscles, twisting his upper body. In a matter of seconds, Methos was lying beneath him, his considerably thinner frame pinned neatly by the heavier body of the Highlander whose eyes were now absolutely black with desire. 

Panting harshly, Duncan slid his gaze lower on the pale, long throat so vulnerable… exposed to him. He bent closer, catching the hands still tangled in his hair and pinned them above the man’s head, squeezing so hard he was sure he was leaving bruises but he didn’t care, nor did Methos seem to complain when his breathing also quickened. Duncan kissed him, but this time it was he who was in control. His tongue pressed for entry and when the teeth parted, he explored, marking the territory as his. He slid his lips lower, licking along the sharp curve of Methos’s jaw, biting lightly at the thin skin under his chin. He slid yet lower to that appealingly white throat and his teeth fastened immediately over it, biting hard enough to draw blood. He heard a breathless scream from above and felt the tendon under his teeth flex rapidly, he eased the pressure only when the body under him relaxed again and Mac started lapping at the slow trickle of blood.

Duncan growled once again when the salty-sweet, coppery taste exploded on his tongue. He could almost taste the difference in their flavors… He pushed his thigh between the older man’s legs and pressed at the hard bulge he felt there, not asking for permission, but taking what he wanted. He felt Methos’s hips arch up, harder into the pressure and a low, deep moan escaped the swollen lips.

He slid lower, tasting the skin, biting and scratching until he found the hard pebbled nipples and sucked them so hard the sensation was nearly painful. He saw the red marks and tiny droplets of blood on the pale chest and growled again, glad to see his marks on the man.

Mine.

Everything in him seemed to scream that, mine, mine, mine… long forgotten anger at Methos for leaving without a word so many times, the possessiveness and the overwhelming fear of loosing him, flooded Duncan’s mind throwing him into some primal, almost animalistic mode of taking possession and marking him as property.

Methos arched into the pressure of the muscled, hot thigh on his trapped cock and wailed when the relentless lips fastened on his nipple and sucked so hard, he thought he would burst from the sheer force of the sensation. He wanted to provoke Duncan, to have sex with him and ruthlessly pushed aside every attempt from Duncan to make it something different than sex.

But he never suspected the man to have this kind of passion, aggression in him. This fire took him aback and suddenly he felt himself so hot and aroused like he couldn’t remember. Each touch, each none too gentle graze of the white teeth made him shiver with desire. The powerful muscles moving, tensing and twitching under his hands were an additional rush. All that power, all that sheer force was something that worked him better than any drug could. 

He writhed, frustrated that he couldn’t touch, couldn’t taste as his wrists were pinned to the bed with ruthless force.

“Clothes…” He managed to gasp between breaths “Take off…”

He was released suddenly and watched mesmerized for a single moment as Duncan jerked the shirt over his head and then started on his slacks, never taking his eyes from Methos’s flushed face. 

The older man held his breath when all of that powerful body was revealed. Broad arms, sculpted with muscles and golden skin shimmering lightly in the faint light from the bathroom door and the rippling muscles of abdomen twitching when Duncan was ridding himself of his pants at last. 

His mouth salivated at the sight of the proud, swollen erection pointing straight at him. It was big, certainly bigger than average and it jutted out from the nest of dark curls. His skin, even there, seemed warm and golden and oh so appetizing… 

A sudden movement brought his attention back to Mac’s hands and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of his own stiletto, the wickedly sharp blade gleaming slightly.

Before he had the time to even blink, MacLeod’s hands were on his jeans, literally slicing them away from his body. He sucked in his breath and lay perfectly still as the blade slid dangerously close to his trapped cock and then exhaled when the denim gave under the sharp knife. He was naked, on his back, with legs still spread as Duncan froze, kneeling over him and he stared for a long, long moment at his body. The dark eyes sliding up and down, and Methos started shivering, his cock filling until it was nearly painful.

He couldn’t remember anyone, ever having so much of an effect on him as this man. His mere gaze made him so incredibly hot… and scared shitless. So much power, so much control over him… it was terrifying. Attraction, the easy way Duncan made him breathless was a danger, his Achilles heel…

Not wanting to show his surprising vulnerability to the bigger man, Methos twisted and turned until he had Mac on the bed and without so much as a word slid down his body, taking the hard cock in his mouth as deep as he could at the first try, keeping the hips still as he swallowed, hearing the cry and the tension in the body beneath him. 

He felt heat starting in his lower belly and realized with a start just how incredibly close to orgasm he was! Catching the hips in a punishing grip he started a hard rhythm that was supposed to bring the Highlander over the edge.

The slightly salty taste on his tongue and the feeling of the thick fullness in his throat was familiar, but this time there was no submission, no force behind action. Unusually, he did it because he wanted it. From the very first time he saw the powerful Highland warrior he wanted too taste him, fuck him, lick and bite each and every inch of his skin.

But this time Mac wasn’t going to give into the man. He threaded his fingers into the short, black hair and pulled until, with reluctance, Methos let go of his cock and slid up his sweat slicked body. Duncan forced their mouths together, tasting himself and Methos in the hot cavern and flipped them back again.

Methos spread his legs, letting Duncan nest himself in the warm space in between and groaned when he felt the silken steel of Mac’s erection touching his own, trapping them between their sweaty bellies. 

Never letting go of the hot, nearly frantic mouth, Duncan started thrusting in the slick, hot, tight space between their bodies, feeling his cock slide along the second, equally hard shaft.

The scent of sex, of passion and the gasps and groans filled the room, the musk of the man writhing beneath him, scratching his back and sides so hard… He must have drawn blood and it caused him to sink in that space where only the here and now mattered.

Suddenly, the slim body beneath him arched and with a nearly painful wail and he felt a hot splash on his stomach and chest when Methos came, his body arched so strongly, that each and every tendon on his neck stood out. His moist lips, swollen and bruised from the frantic kisses were parted and his eyes closed. In that moment, the older man was the most beautiful thing Duncan had ever seen and with a last thrust into the slick skin, he came, feeling his muscles tense as if they wanted to rip out of his body. 

He managed to sink to the bed, covering the other man only partly and not suffocating him with his weight.

For a long moment, the room was filled only with their panting breaths and slowing heartbeats.

Duncan raised his hand, touching the smooth forehead of the man that looked so deceptively young and fragile and trailing along the closed eyelids and then the sharp, well defined nose. He could feel the steady rhythmic breaths and for a brief moment, was regretful that he fell asleep so quickly.

He raised his head and pressed his lips to the soft, still moist mouth of his lover. He half expected him to respond, to share this intimacy, this happiness with him, but the other man hadn’t stirred.

And then, the same sudden flash of clarity, of instinct came like before, and he was sure that Methos wasn’t asleep. If it wasn’t for the strange sense of connection he seemed to share with the Old Man, he would have never guessed that he wasn’t really asleep.

The realization that Methos didn’t want any closeness, any intimacy with him after what happened just minutes ago hurt. It hurt so badly, Duncan felt his chest tighten. Hurt mixed with anger as the shame made him flush.

He was an idiot. He wanted to make love to Methos, to cherish him, and the other man had just had sex with him. A quick, intense fuck that was started and controlled by him.

Even though it was Duncan who seemed to be the aggressor, he was sure that he was manipulated into it. Methos was a master in plotting after all. His ulterior motives had ulterior motives. 

Desperately needing space to regain his balance, Duncan slid off the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom to take a wet washcloth and clean himself.

When he was washing the drying semen from his belly and groin, he felt only shame and slight disgust. He hated casual encounters. Sex without meaning was hollow and sad, and he had enough pain in his life without adding to the list.

Feeling young, stupid and entirely inexperienced he came back to the bedroom. Methos was in the same position, his breathing slow and even, simulating sleep so perfect… 

Gently, not letting the anger get better of him, Duncan cleaned him with the washcloth and then draped the covers over him. The Old Man got easily chilled…

Swallowing over the bitter lump in his throat, he stroked the deceptively young face once again, before gathering his clothes and leaving the bedroom to think.

Methos opened his eyes when he heard the door close. Keeping still while Duncan tended to him was harder than he expected. Something told him that the man saw through his game, but didn’t comment on it, didn’t force Methos to acknowledge what happened between them. Even though he still tended to him as carefully as any lover would. And it touched him in a way that was totally alien to him. After living through the forgotten hell for the last seven weeks, experiencing tenderness was more than he could take.

He remembered the last, sad stroke of his face, before Mac left and closed his eyes against the sudden wave of feeling. He curled on the bed in a fetal position, pulling the cover over himself tightly.

Suddenly he felt very, very cold.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14

Finally, it was hunger that woke Methos. The growling in his stomach forced him to get up and dress. He was alone, but could still feel the echo of the Highlander’s Presence. It meant that he was still in Methos’s range, but barely.

Being as old as he was, he had an extraordinary wide range that allowed him to sense other Immortal’s long before they had a chance to sense him.

After stretching the kinks in his body, Methos went to the kitchen. He felt surprisingly good, considering the course of the last months.

He was weak and tired, but the ever present pressure behind his eyes and depressing feelings were gone. He could actually feel his body heal.

Well… who would have thought that one fuck with the Highlander would work miracles? If he had known that earlier, he would have jumped into bed with him a lot sooner.

He started the water, actually feeling like a hot tea and searched the contents of the fridge, feeling hungry like a wolf.

Some part of his mind knew that his sudden well being was an effect of this strange, unsettling, connection he shared with Duncan MacLeod. If asked, he would certainly deny that he felt anything, but he couldn’t lie to himself.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He could lie to himself, and would.

Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a sense of connection, the bond that thrummed with energy, aiding him, making him stronger, granting him peace that was necessary to heal and grow stronger. 

While waiting for the eggs to be done, he wolfed down three sandwiches. After all he had almost two months worth of near starvation to make up for.

Finally, he put the large helping of scrambled eggs with bacon and toast on the plate and went to the living room. 

Methos knew that building his body’s weight back to normal lever would take at least another three weeks and some training to reverse the damage done to the muscles by the lack of nutrition.

After washing down the late breakfast with a cup of hot, sweet tea he sighed and leaned back comfortably on the couch, enjoying the simple pleasure of peace and silence. It was so long…

Consciously, he steered his mind away from the memories, the flashbacks he suffered for so long.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could sense some vague sense of unease, anger and hurt. But these emotions weren’t his. It was the link. He understood that he was sensing the Highlander’s emotional state and couldn’t decide how he felt about it.

After a moment, he reached the conclusion that he didn’t like it. It forced him into a kind of close, intimate relationship that he didn’t want nor need.

The fact that he and the Scot had fucked didn’t matter either. No amount of fucking could bring him to this vulnerable, nerve-wracking state of exposure to another being.

The very thought that MacLeod could have such an intimate, deep insight into his mind was unsettling. 

God, how he hated this emotional roller-coaster! Carefully and very consciously, Methos clamped down on the emotions he was sensing and worked on closing his mind to the link that was both life-saving and threatening to him.

* * *

Duncan stopped and leaned on the nearest tree panting. He had been running for the last three hours now, the physical exertion keeping his mind clear of any thoughts.

The only thing he was capable of focusing on was keeping his breath even and finding a path in the dense forest surrounding the awful mansion Methos lived in.

He hoped that exhaustion would put a lid on his anger, on the hurt that was swirling just under the surface.

The more distance he put between him and his friend the more Duncan realized that he had just been used. If it wasn’t for Methos’ admission in Seacover that he wanted him, Mac would have thought that what happened between them was only a performance on the other man’s part.

When the sexual rush wore off and Mac started actually thinking about what happened, he was appalled. He was disgusted by his own lack of control. He couldn’t remember ever being so aggressive, so inconsiderable towards any of his lovers. Granted, till now, he had been only with women, that naturally demanded a lot more restraint on his part.

He was a lot heavier and a lot stronger than any woman and letting go with them was not possible. There was a very real possibility of hurting them.

He thought about being with a man. Maybe not considered in consciously, but sometimes there had been an unbidden images that would pop into his mind, making him hot, aroused and uneasy. It was anything overly specific, just a random thought; what it could be like to be with a man. To be able to let go, let the passion overwhelm him and be the object of such passion. Equal to equal. Strength to strength… And ever since meeting Methos the thoughts became more and more frequent and more pointed, but he refused to acknowledge it. 

It was not until their friendship practically ceased to exist and it was too late, that he realized he was IN LOVE with the irritating, sarcastic… good man. A man.

He started fantasizing about him. How all that pale skin would look like flushed with desire and exposed to his eyes. He admired the cat-like grace, the sleek body of the oldest Immortal and longed to feel it under his hands, under his mouth and tongue. He dreamed of tasting and licking it… of making love.

And that was the problem. Each time he fantasized about Methos he wanted to make love to him. To cherish him.

Methos took that away from him. From the very first kiss, he made it all about passion, about lust without gentleness or love. It was so out of Duncan’s character, so against his nature that it hurt physically.

The rough sex did nothing for him except for those few seconds of release. Even that had a bitter flavor when he remembered how Methos pretended to be asleep to avoid even the tiniest amount of intimacy that Duncan might want.

It tore at him, leaving a deep, bleeding gash in his heart. He forgot how much the people he loved could hurt him. No enemy, no stranger could cut as deep and as easily as beloved ones.

At first he was so angry, so hurt, that he wanted to shake Methos awake and yell at him, scream, throw all of his pain at the older man.

For this reason, he left the bedroom… before he did something he would regret later. 

Now, a few hours later, he started to calm down. The hurt was still there, but deeper, more concealed. Mac understood why Methos acted like he did.

He was like a wounded predator. He would accept help because he had no other choice, but he would do it only on his own terms.

And those, apparently, contained no intimacy between them. Sex yes, because both were interested, but Methos made it obvious that there would be no involvement on his part.

When Mac got past the initial pain he realized his mistake. He acted like the fool that Methos had accused him of being so many times. 

Methos didn’t KNOW him. For the Old Man, it was their second meeting! He was a stranger to him. Methos had no reason to trust him.

With a sigh, Duncan sat on a broken log, staring at the ugly house and pondered his situation. It was starting to rain, but he ignored the cold- too preoccupied with his thoughts.

On the other side maybe it was better. After all, during their friendship, Duncan failed Methos time and time again, straining their trust until it finally broke. Right now he had ‘carte blanche’ - a chance to start it all again, to avoid stupid mistakes and rushed judgments about the complicated man.

About his feelings. He was in love with Methos, and the other man was not. But was it really such a bad thing? He could have him in his bed, in his life… he would really have a chance to make Methos fall for him.

Because no matter how Methos acted, what he said, he longed to be loved. But he pretended that emotional involvement was a stupidity, a weakness because deep down in his heart he felt, he didn’t deserve to be loved. He felt unworthy and since attack is the best defense, he attacked first. Pushed away before somebody pushed him away first. 

Duncan smiled, ignoring the cold rain pouring form the sky. He had a chance to get his heart’s desire, but it would probably cost him a lot of pain and effort. Still, it was worth it.

After the O’Rourke fiasco, Duncan realized that he shouldn’t ever push love away. It was too rare an occurrence to be treated lightly. Because each time could be the last time. He was granted Immortality, a chance to live more than one lifetime and he was not going to waste it.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 15

Methos watched the brooding Scot in the pouring, freezing rain. His hair and clothes were completely soaked, but he still didn’t move, or acknowledge the weather in any way.

If he was stupid enough to sit there, Methos should leave him to this doubtful pleasure and go take a nap. Yet, he stayed in the same place, for two bloody hours, standing in the window and watching the stupid Scot freeze his ass off.

His body shivered from the cold in sympathy and he decided that he had had enough.

An annoying, sarcastic voice in the back of his mind kept baiting him that he was worried about the man, which was why he couldn’t stand watching him brood.

But he pushed the thought aside. He didn’t care about what happened to the man over what he needed from MacLeod. The man needed to be alive and close to keep his nightmares at bay.

He didn’t care about him. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.

Cursing, he reached for the coat and umbrella. Bloody, idiotic, barbaric Scot. It was all his fault!

* * *

Mac was brought back from his musings when something changed. The sense of other Immortal’s presence was stronger now, but he ignored it, used to feel of the rich, strange feeling of the Oldest Living Immortal.

It took him a moment to realize that the rain had stopped… but he still could hear and see it. He looked up, over his shoulder only to see the carefully schooled pale face of his friend and almost lover. The older man was dressed in a warm coat and was holding a big, black umbrella over them both.

“Are you trying to grow roots MacLeod?” Although the question was biting, the voice held no aggression whatsoever.

Mac blinked at him, not understanding.

“Because I really think you’ve had enough of this… watering.” Methos said with a mild disgust, sliding his eyes over the soaked clothes clinging to Mac’s body and wincing obviously.

It was only then that Duncan realized that he was completely wet and a glance towards the gray sky told him that he’d been sitting there for quite a long time.

“Oh… I’ve lost the track of time.” Only when he admitted that, Duncan felt the cold that penetrated his body deep to the bones.

“Are you ready to come back?” Asked Methos with surprising gentleness.  
Duncan expected more snide remarks, biting comments… and this carefulness surprised him.

“Yes I think I am.” And they both knew that he was talking about more things than only coming back in the house.

* * *

Duncan stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, pondering the events of the day. After that fateful morning and their sudden tumble in the bed followed by his ‘brooding session’ everything calmed.

To Mac’s surprise, Methos tried to keep his sharp tongue on a leash, the tension that was in him earlier, seemed to disappear. He was still wary of Mac, but no longer waiting for any attack that might happen.

They returned to the house and the older man told him to go take a hot shower, while he cooked dinner. It was strange having Methos cook anything. In all the years they knew each other, Mac had never seen the man cook. Oh, he was talking about the cookbooks he published, but never indicated that he actually knew what to do in the kitchen.

Duncan was too tired and too cold to argue. With a grateful sigh, he just went upstairs for a long soak in a hot bath. 

When he came back, he was drawn to the kitchen by something smelling good. In a surprisingly relaxed atmosphere, they had delicious dinner. After they finished and Methos brought a bottle of expensive cognac and two snifters, they settled in the living room. Mac on the floor near the burning fire, Methos sprawled on the sofa with a book in his hand.

Duncan smiled at the memory of the fantastic sprawl, that managed to take 90% of every surface available. It was so good to see Methos act like his old self. Maybe he didn’t remember Mac, but he did feel good in his company. They sat there in silence for a long time, Mac watching the fire and Methos reading the book.

Duncan listened to the light rustling of turning pages in more or less equal intervals that started getting longer and longer and finally stopped. 

Methos’ eyes were fixed on the book, but he hadn’t been reading it for quite a while. Duncan didn’t show that he noticed it. He kept sitting on the floor, back to the sofa, eyes fixed on the dancing flame, just enjoying the peaceful companionship and knowledge that they were both safe and alive.

His awareness of the link seemed to get stronger, because now he was aware of the mood shifting in Methos. He was relaxed but… curious. It wasn’t as if Duncan could read the man’s thoughts. He was just aware of the changes in his mood. It allowed him to see a little bit deeper under the man’s mask of stoic calm that he showed to the world.

Duncan waited, and finally, Methos broke.

He asked about their ‘so called’ friendship. He still didn’t believe Mac, but decided to at least give it a try.

MacLeod had considered censuring the history, so to speak. But decided that he had to be honest with the man if he wanted to build a relationship with him. So he spoke. About their first meeting, about Kirstin, Richie, Byron, Ahriman… everything. Including their most recent fall out.

Methos didn’t comment. He just listened, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire, like Duncan and stayed silent.

When Duncan finished, it was late and they had finished the whole bottle of the expensive alcohol.

It was a strange, but pleasant feeling to have Methos actually listen to him and make an effort not to snap at everything. Yet, Mac wanted to hear something from him. An assurance of some kind, telling him that everything would be okay… but it couldn’t happen.

“MacLeod… are you in love with me?” Asked Methos after a long silence.

Duncan tensed, averting his eyes from the fire for the first time the whole evening and looked at the blank face of his friend. The eyes were of a stark golden color, but with green edges, signaling that they might change at any minute. There was no indication of Methos reaction, his feelings or thoughts.

What was even more unsettling, the link that thrummed between them suddenly shut down. It was there, he was still aware of the older man, but he couldn’t read any emotion from him. Nothing.

Swallowing, Duncan realized that lying had no sense. Considering all of his actions, it was a logical assumption. And a true one.

“Yes. I love you Methos… I think I did for a long time.” Duncan answered softly, with surprise in his voice. After relating their history together, Mac realized that he was in love with Methos from the very beginning

Something flashed in Methos’s eyes. Something bright and vulnerable, before he lowered his lids and hid his eyes from Mac.

“You… seem surprised, why?” Asked Methos, his voice not betraying his emotions but oddly gentle.

“You are the first man I seem to be attracted to. The only man.”

This time Duncan managed to shock Methos. The golden-green eyes widened in surprise when the older man remembered their previous encounter in bed.

“Well… you sure got me fooled. Must be a natural talent of yours…”

Duncan flushed when he realized of what Methos was speaking. He got a small smile from Methos in return. Still, oddly gentle.

Their situation was strange to say at best. They weren’t friends or lovers either. 

“Uhm…” Started Duncan a bit unsure. “It’s late. I saw a bedroom on the other side of the corridor that seemed to be relatively useful and moved my things there. I think I will go to bed…”

Golden green, mysterious eyes regarded him for a long, long moment. Methos didn’t move, making himself as non threatening as he could and Duncan recognized the tactic. It was unsettling to stand there, under that thoughtful gaze of the slender man, lit only by the fireplace. 

He looked more attractive than Duncan had remembered and the first stirrings in his groin confirmed that.

“You don’t have to.” Said Methos quietly.

You don’t have to sleep in the other bedroom, you don’t have to sleep alone… he meant all those things but not the one Duncan needed to hear.

Methos gave him the clear indication that he would welcome him in his bed, but Methos offered only sex, and although Duncan’s cock agreed with the idea, he wanted love. Once realizing that Methos would not allow him any intimacy, any closeness later, his desire lessened. 

“I think it’ll be better for both of us if I do.”

Again, Methos regarded him with that thoughtful look and then nodded, without a word.

“Goodnight.” Mac said, uncertain if he hadn’t spoiled something by this decision.

“Night.” Came the answer and the link opened up a little, letting him know that everything was all right. Methos was confused, but not angry at him.

Then, Duncan padded up the stairs to the extra bedroom. He shed his clothes and eased down onto the bed. Tired, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 16

Methos was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He thought about the Highlander’s admission. 

Love.

Could he believe him? He snorted, yeah, right. As if that child of an Immortal knew anything. He wanted him, that was only lust. And some strange conviction that he had to be in some kind of relationship with those he fucked.

How chivalrous. 

He felt dizzy again. Goddess, how he hated his body’s weakness. He wanted to be healed already, but the enforced separation from the younger Immortal was taking its toll, and Methos could already feel the restlessness that plagued him for the last weeks. 

What did the Scot want? Confessions of undying love? 

Methos knew he wasn’t entirely fair with Duncan. He deliberately slept with him, because something told him that Duncan MacLeod would never fight his lover. And he needed protection right now. As much as he hated him, he was sure that he was the greatest danger to himself than anything else at the moment.

Still he would not ask. He would not beg.

The memories of rape, the near constant starvation… when he had to beg and trade his body for ANYTHING to eat or drink, they were still to fresh in his mind. That morning with the Scot took a lot from him. He simultaneously wanted him and hated him. Each touch threatened to bring back the memories of pain and humiliation.

And it was his ultimate weapon. He realized that he had a lot of soft spots for the Highlander, and as long as he was the object of want, as long as the man touched him sexually, he would not give him anything from his heart.

Some part of him knew that it was the effect of the flashbacks, that he managed to live a long life and have a lot of lovers without the low grade hate that boiled inside him now.

But ever since the flashbacks started, it was like reliving it again and again. Each time he was beaten or tortured to death, each time he was raped…

Quite quickly he realized just what the Master’s plan was. First beating and tortures to scare him, then rapes to weaken him. But it wasn’t the worst. He always had the comfort of knowing that there was nothing he could do. That it wasn’t his choice, his fault.

But that man obviously knew what he was doing.

Then he made the most devious thing Methos could think of. He gave Methos the illusion of will, illusion of choice. You want to stop the pain? Sure… just let those guards fuck you until you are bathed in your own blood.

Cursing his weakness and cursing the Highlander for making him feel so much, he fell into an exhausted, unhealthy sleep…

* 

He was trembling. The hard stone floor was cutting into his bare knees, but still he kneeled at his Master’s feet without a single move. Not a muscle twitched, nor did his eyes stray from those richly dressed feet. 

The unforgiving sun was scorching his naked shoulders, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

A light breeze cooled his heated skin and moved the end of his plait. He briefly wondered if his hair was now halfway down his thighs, when plaited the dark, heavy silk of a rope reached his hips.

His Master liked to touch his hair.

He could hear the others moving around, shifting, going into the cave and out… but it was all. His eyes were fixed at his Master’s feet for last few hours. The only things he saw coming here were the entrance to the cave and the tents of servants. The Master seemed to bring his whole army to this place.

Suddenly a loud scream, full of unimaginable agony filled the air along with a wave of hot air smelling of burned flesh and fear. The buzz he was feeling in the back of his mind lessened. Still he didn’t turn his head, nor moved a single muscle. He was better trained than that.

He shivered when he felt a slender, harmless looking hand on his head, stroking the silken hair tightly gathered into a plait. Up and down… in slow, hypnotizing movements that instead of relaxing him, only made him tremble with trepidation. Would his Masters touch bring him pain? Pleasure? 

He craved both.

The hand moved in a way that signified that the Master would take his pleasure from his body later.

Someone approached them. He knew that voice. One of the mercenaries working for the Master.

“He died. Just like all the others. Mortal or not, no one can touch the stone.”

“Ah… but we’ll see.” Answered the deceptively gentle voice of his Master.

The hand on his hair pulled lightly, letting him know he was supposed to stand up. There was no need for words. After 150 years of slavery and constant conditioning he was taught to answer to certain gestures in the blink of an eye.

Silently and obediently he raised to his feet, the small white cloth around his hips the only thing that covered him, barely hiding his private regions. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

“Slave, go into the cave and bring me the small, hand sized stone lying in the center of the stone altar.”

Name… it had been so long since he had a name. He was only called ‘slave’ or ‘thing’… He was never allowed to have a name, to be a human being. Only an animal, less than anything else that the Master owned.

“Yes Master.” He whispered hoarsely, his voice still not healed enough for him to speak properly.

The cave was very small, oval and absolutely not what he expected. Judging from the screams and sounds coming from there, he though there would be something big and terrifying. What he found was a small, obviously man made cave with a plain stone altar in the middle. 

On the unblemished, gray surface was lying a stone. A smooth, oval stone with something engraved on it. 

When he made a move towards it he felt it. Cool… and thick… the air seemed heavy and sweet with a strange smell.

It smelled of jasmine, rain dampened earth and the world at sunset…

He reached his hand forward and felt a light tingling in his fingertips. Fear came with the realization that many others died trying to take the innocent looking stone. He hesitated for a brief moment, but then he thought about returning to the Master with his hands empty and shivered.

How could he? He couldn’t even die if the Master didn’t allow it.

Without a further thought he grabbed the stone and froze.

Nothing happened. No pain, nothing.

Just this tiny little feeling, a sensation… maybe an instinct that told him that it was right. That the feel of the smooth stone in his hand was so very, very right. That there was something he needed to do…

*

Duncan awoke to a strange feeling. It was like the nagging sense that he forgot about something.

He kept still, trying to clear his mind from the sleepy haze, trying to remember what he had forgotten.

And then he heard it. Or rather felt. Something in the back of his mind told him that Methos needed him. The strange awareness, the ability to sense the older Immortal, the link was now pulsing, vibrating… something wasn’t right. 

He got out of bed and pulled a pair of sweat pants on. Quickly, he directed his steps to the other occupied bedroom. The corridor was dark and quiet and he didn’t like the silence at all.

He got this feeling that in the shadows obscuring the narrow corridor, hid something dark and threatening.

A shiver ran down his spine when he made his way to the other bedroom. 

Then Duncan heard it. A long, drawn, painful moan full of despair and he started running.

The doors to the bedroom were mercifully open. He barged inside and stopped like the dead.

Methos, still dressed in sweats and tee was lying in the middle of the bed. The covers were kicked off of the bed somewhere during the night. But what terrified him was the way Methos looked.

His body was arched so hard that his back and hips were several inches above the bed. His muscles, still weak and fragile from his starvation were pushed to their limits, tensed and shaking in the effort. His pale, white skin was covered with sweat and tendons and veins stood out on his long, vulnerable neck.

His eyes were wide open and unseeing… staring at something deep in the past. His link to the older Immortal made Duncan anxious. He knew he needed to break this strange… trance.

Then came the guilt. He cursed himself for leaving the Old Man alone! How could he? Just because he felt ill at ease after the encounter between them? Just because of that he left him alone, knowing damn well that Methos was too weak to be by himself? That he needed Duncan’s presence to keep the nightmares at bay?

How could he let down his friend again? So many times… So many things he didn’t do or did do something he shouldn’t; hurting the man over and over again. Never understanding his motives, never understanding that Methos had other priorities. That his friends, that Duncan, was more important that anything. More important than the honor or fair play. That was why Methos interfered in his fights. That’s why he send Kalas to jail, shot O’Rourke or sacrificed Jacob Galati. All to save his miserable hide.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 17

Feeling the bitter taste of guilt at letting down his friend again, he approached the bed carefully.

“Methos? Come on my friend, wake up…”

He sat on the edge of the bed and carefully touched the man’s shoulder, instinctively feeling that physical contact would help.

He hissed when he felt the icy coldness of Methos’ skin. The man was freezing!

He tried to call to him, talk to him, even shake him awake but nothing helped. Methos was dead to the world. His open eyes staring into something that must have scared him to death, judging from the occasional moans that left his blue, cold lips.

Desperate to help his friend in any way possible, Duncan quickly lost his clothes and undressed Methos. Then he climbed into bed with him, pulling the covers over them.

He literally curled himself around the freezing form. Methos was so incredibly cold, that Duncan was seriously afraid that he would die from lack of warmth. And something, instinct or this link, told him that it would not be a good thing. That if he let Methos die while in the throes of another of the terrifying flashbacks, he could be lost in the nightmare forever.

Duncan hissed when his naked body touched the chilled flesh, but didn’t stop. He threw his leg over the other man’s and tried to fit the incredibly stiff body into his arms. The fact that Methos’ muscles seemed to be frozen in the unnatural position didn’t help.

Fear, guilt and anxiousness made his own heart beat faster. He was actually thankful for it, because thanks to the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his own body temperature had risen and he knew it would help his friend. He lost track of what he was saying, whispering reassurances, pleas and threats to his one-time lover and lost friend.

“Please… Please Methos wake up. I never begged so much in my life but I beg you now. Wake UP! I’ll do anything, I’ll never leave you alone again. Just please come back to me love… You are everything to me, don’t you know that? After Tessa I thought I would never find somebody like that, another part of my soul, but your friendship has helped me through the darkest hours of my life and please, don’t leave me alone… not again. Not ever.”

He was massaging the tense shoulders, trying to put some warmth into the chilled flesh and work out some of the adrenaline and anxiousness he felt. He had no idea what was going on. He could only rely on his instincts and the strange link that suddenly formed between them.

But no matter what he did, no matter what he had said, Methos wasn’t coming back from the catatonic state that he was in.

“I swear that if you don’t come back, you old goat, I will find and throw out all your beer. I’ll find each and every bar in your vicinity and make damn sure that you will NOT have a beer there. Ever. I’ll make your life a beerless hell!”

His voice was becoming hoarse and he wasn’t even aware of the tears streaking down his face. He had no idea how long he was there, trying in vain to pass some of his own body heat to the older Immortal. Nothing seemed to help. 

“Please… “He was desperate enough to grab straws. He remembered the wash of someone’s Presence before he lost three hours. Maybe there was somebody trying to help him? ‘Whoever you are, help me. Tell me what to do.” At this pint he didn’t care if it was good or bad, if it was angel or daemon. All he knew was that something was so very wrong with the ancient Immortal. When he felt the Presence starting to falter and pulse gradually weaker, he was nearly panicking. Something told him that under no circumstances, must he loose Methos. “Whoever you are, help me save him!”

* * *

Ash stopped in the middle of the street. It was early morning in Seacouver, the air was chilly and damp and she felt more alive than ever before. Then something tugged at her senses.

Pain and darkness flooded her mind with such an intensity that she swayed. She barely managed to stagger into a narrow alley before the feeling came again, stronger and so much more intense that before.

She hissed when she realized that she was receiving sensation from both Duncan MacLeod and the Ancient One. 

‘Girl, you are getting soft’ she thought to herself ‘too much sleep, not enough practice in shielding over the last millennia or two’

Ash started taking deep breaths trying to separate her own emotions from foreign ones.

She always knew that the Ancient One had a powerful mind, that his ability to FEEL was something that made him different from his kind. And that quicksilver mind with thought patterns changing so often and so quick that even telepaths hired by the Master couldn’t understand him. Oh… they did break him. Everyone can be broken after a sufficient amount of time and pain, but they never understood Methos, and underestimated him.

Bracing herself on the cold, damp wall she started raising her shields, trying to protect herself from the onslaught of emotions. Duncan MacLeod was an incredibly strong individual. How could untrained mind make contact with her? She didn’t know. She never met anyone with such potential! His mind kept reaching out, tendrils of emotion-thought catching her in thousands of different places and anchoring with desperate strength.

She could easily sense his distress, his fear, anxiousness and guilt. 

Ash cursed in few dead languages when she realized what happened. Duncan’s mind wasn’t shielded so strongly, or maybe he was willingly opening himself to her? The thought that somebody, a simple Immortal, could do that without training made her think that maybe Duncan MacLeod wasn’t as ordinary as she thought?

Slowly, careful not to hurt the man, she eased her mind into him through the opening he left her. She was scared, maybe for the first time in a long time. Not for herself… She doubted there was anything living on this planet that could resist the strength of her mind, but she remembered what she was. 

She was a killer, a weapon, a killing machine designed and shaped to exterminate a whole race, which she did. 

Her powers were designed to kill and torture, to gather information no matter if the mind was willing to give them or not, but never to… help.

But the times had changed, the purpose also. She was now maybe even more dangerous that before. Because she was a Weapon without a purpose, without a wielder. 

She winced at the pain and rawness of the mind she invaded. She knew that the tenderness was her fault. When she broke the shielding a day before to establish a link between herself and Duncan MacLeod, and to strengthen the already existing link between The Highlander and Ancient One; She did that in a cruel, primitive way and although she tried to control the damage, she still hurt the man.

She had to admit that the Highland Warrior was a courageous one. To let her in after that… to open his mind, the most vulnerable part of himself to her, a stranger, was a desperate thing to do.

She envied Methos someone willing to risk so much for him…

Ash closed her eyes and saw through Duncan’s eyes.

Methos was pale, almost blue from the cold, His eyes were open but unseeing and his body tensed, as if frozen in some kind of seizure.

She knew what was going on immediately. Someone was trying to bring all the conditioning to the fore of his mind, to force Methos to reveal his secrets.

But the Ancient One was stubborn. Weak, on the edge of starvation, he still thought. His mind, the strongest part of his whole being was still shielded with the force and skill that no telepath or empath ever possessed. 

But he was too weak to fight the foreign intrusion that surrounded him like a dark halo. She could almost see the darkness covering his body in the thin layer, taking away all his warmth, killing him. Because while dying, in that moment when all faded, the mind was left defenseless. The conscious thoughts disappeared and Ancient One’s thoughts would be open and vulnerable to the attackers.

She wondered how many secrets they had already drawn from him this way?

* * *

Duncan could feel that something was going on. The strange, foreign pressure in his mind, the sense of a Presence that washed over him in waves was enough of a clue.

It was like something, or rather someone, was crawling inside his mind. His first instinct was to get away from this, to shy away from that invading mental touch, but one look at the pale form of his suffering friend told him to stay still. With conscious effort he kept his mind open, trying to reach that deep, meditative state of mind, to relax his body and mind and let, whatever it was, in. His gut told him that it wasn’t going to hurt him. There was no hostility in its actions. 

**Warm him**

He nearly jumped when he heard the soft mind-whisper in his mind.

“But how?” He asked aloud. He had tried everything.

**Share your breath with him, share your soul with him, share your power with him.**

“But how should I do that?” Duncan was at a loss. How could he do that? He remembered some Indian mythology talking that if one took the dying animals last breath, he took his soul.

**Steal his breath… replace the air of life with your own.**

And then it was gone. Both the sense of Presence, and the strange feeling in his mind. He felt… raw. As if he had drank too much, or cried too much. There was this tender feeling inside that he didn’t like at all. It left him dizzy and unsure. 

Still not sure about his actions, but not seeing any other possibility, he leaned over the still body and pressed his lips to the cold ones.

Praying that he was right, he brought his hand to the prominent nose he teased Methos so much about and pinched, closing off his air supply.

Conscious or not, the body had its functions and he felt the chest under him expanding rapidly and trying get oxygen into the lungs. He pressed his lips hard enough to bruise to the older man and breathed out, straight into him.

‘Take my strength’

The body under him jerked with the unnatural pressure but remained still. He pulled the air in through his nose and then pumped it into the other set of lungs.

‘Take my life’

His lungs burned but still he kept breathing, their bodies connected; breathing the same air. He consciously took the air expelled from the other man’s lungs into himself and let it out through his nose then taking another breath through the nose and then pushing it back into the oxygen starved lungs of the man beneath him.

‘Take my power’

After few breaths it became easier. Their bodies in sync, in and out, in and out… draw in, push into Methos and then draw the air back into himself, letting it out through his nose.

He repeated the words inside his mind like a mantra, desperate to save his friend. Desperate to give him what he needed.

Then suddenly, the body underneath him jerked, spasmed and he screamed in pain when blue tendrils of energy left his body, and shot into Methos.

His Quickening was tearing out of him, leaving hot tendrils of pain on his skin. The small lightning pulsed and crawled over his skin towards the chilled man and then disappeared inside of him. Everywhere the energy touched him, the skin lost its scary bluish color and turned warmer again.

Finally, it stopped and when Duncan felt the body in his arms sag and relax, he let go of his lips and let him breathe on his own.

“Hold on, Old Man.” He whispered panting from pain, exhaustion and lack of oxygen. “Hold on…”

He watched as the panting breaths became shallow and even and the Oldest Immortal slipped easily into a healing sleep. Murmuring something Methos snuggled closer, obviously seeking warmth.

Duncan wanted to laugh out loud but didn’t dare to wake Methos up after what happened. He knew that his friend needed time to heal and gather his strength.

He pulled the still cold and shivering man into his arms, and stroked the damp hair out of his face. He had a lot to think about. He doubted that he would fall asleep again this night, but before long his eyes closed and he drifted off, still holding the man he loved close to himself.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 18

Methos woke to warmth.

His eyes still closed as he scooted a little closer to the source of that wonderful warmth. 

He was still partly asleep and his mind had that soft, fuzzy quality, his thoughts not clear enough, drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming.

And then the memory came back. The strange, silent day and MacLeod admitting his love for him. The surprise in the man’s voice and the air of vulnerability around the powerful Highland warrior caused Methos to clamp down on his instinctual, sharp riposte. Made him to gentle.

So he didn’t mock, didn’t laugh at the admission. He said nothing.

Then he came back to his bedroom, feeling awkwardly shut out. It was strange that his proposal to the Highlander, that if he wanted, he could spend the night with him meant so much to Methos.

When the Highlander turned him down, it didn’t exactly hurt… but left a vague sense of loneliness. A feeling that bordered too much on the dependency that he fought, so he refrained from saying anything more and worked on shutting his mind away from Duncan, not wanting him to sense the emotional storm that seemed to take constant residence in his mind.

He expected sleep to avoid him, with all the things on his mind, but his eyes suddenly felt so heavy that he had no strength to fight the sleepiness and succumbed to his body’s demands.

He should have known better.

As soon as the sleep overtook him, the nightmares began.

He had a strange sense of cognizance while dreaming. It was as if something or someone forced him to watch the memory over and over again. Each time there were more details seen, each time there was a little more pain involved.

Watching himself stepping into that small cave was strange and filled him with fear. Something in his mind told him, that he should not, under any circumstances gather the stone.

It held power, mystery, that wasn’t made to belong to humans.

And there was this self hatred at seeing himself so dependant, so broken in the hands of the Master. Hatred, bright and new, was burning in his veins, filling him with rage that he had not known since the centuries spent with Kronos- raping, killing and pillaging. The cold fire that once consumed his soul and heart, leaving nothing more than an empty shell of a human, that sought just to feel alive again.

The memories came back , seeing the same scene over and over again, Methos was slowly feeling the madness creep inside of him.

Something whispered to him to show the truth, to give up his secret, but he didn’t know what secret!

He hadn’t even remembered the Master before that fatal Quickening, and now something wanted him to give up the knowledge that he simply didn’t have! It was slowly, but surely driving him mad.

And then, when he failed to give what was demanded of him, the memories changed.

Instead of endlessly watching himself go into that small cave to retrieve the mysterious stone, he saw that small, dark room that he feared even more…

* 

His arms hurt so much… he would cry if he had any moisture left in his body. His back, with skin flayed from it with a heavy whip, and tissues smashed into a bloody mess, hurt with an intensity that threatened to drive him mad.

The room was eerily silent and the scent of water hung in the air. Through the pain and exhaustion, he looked down.

There, below his hanging body was a large hole in the floor. A dark, gleaming surface and quiet splash gave it innocent look. But he knew what it was. Something worse than any rape that he was submitted to throughout the years.

The water promised to soothe his aching throat but it was a lie.

When he heard the grind of chains moving and the block started lowering him down, he screamed.

He couldn’t stop his begging even when he knew it would give him anything. His feet, with soles burned by the fire were dipped into the water so full of salt it made his flesh stand on fire. Slowly and surely his whole tortured body was lowered into the salty water, till only his nose was inch above the water. The pain, the burn was excoriating.

He knew that screaming would result in him drowning. Then he would be pulled up a little so that he could revive. But it would be far worse then. He was already on the edge of death from dehydration and swallowing the salty water would result in more painful cramps and a thirst that would drive him into delirium.

Right then, submerged to his lips in the terrifying water, Methos promised himself, never to beg.

If he ever managed to escape, if he ever managed to survive… he would never, ever beg for anything.

*  
Methos shuddered at the memory. It was one of so many ways to torture his mind and body…the Master managed to bring him lower than an animal, lower than anything that lived. Reduced him to a tool, a thoughtless slave glad to receive pain or humiliation from his Master. Anything.

The pain and the chill of the water was still on his mind, on the edge of his consciousness…

He remembered that to some extent, his body reacted to the memory and acted as if he really was immersed in the cold, torturing water. He sensed that he was dying.

It was strange and terrifying to know that. To know exactly that he was going to die from hypothermia… 

And then MacLeod came.

He could hear his question, the hesitant, quiet “Methos?” and then the more concerned urgings for him to wake up.

But he couldn’t. 

He could hear him, feel his hands trying in vain to put some warmth in his dying body and could only lie there, his mind disconnected from his body so absolutely, that he was wondering if that was what the final death was. The absolute inability to do ANYTHING.

Some part of his mind knew that Duncan had a good idea to strip and share his body heat, but he already knew that it was pointless. Nothing could ever save him. Nothing would spare him the pain, the endless torment…

And then he heard Duncan call whatever that linked them in the first place. Methos could feel MacLeod’s concern, the sheer panic and determination coming off of the Scot and felt something in his break a little. Weaken.

He heard the Highlander beg for his salvation and wanted to scream at the stupid man for opening himself to a foreign threat. He could feel the determination, and purposeful opening of Duncan’s mind and wanted to do anything to stop it. What was that idiotic Scot thinking when he made himself so vulnerable to God knows who?

And then the powerful, raw, vaguely familiar sense of Presence and someone was IN Mac, and Methos was in terror. 

He wanted to scream, to stop it from happening, but he couldn’t move. He could only watch and feel his mind slipping into that dark state of oblivion that meant death.

Then something happened. The Presence faded and MacLeod covered his mind and nose, forcing him to breath with him, share his breath.

And although Duncan never spoke the words aloud, Methos could hear them softly whispered in his mind.

‘Share my breath’  
‘Share my strength’  
‘share my life’

And he was.

The first shocks of the Scot’s Quickening brought him relief. The pain disappeared and the more little lightning tendrils touched him, the more warmth he felt.

And the only thing he could do was to watch the strange, absolutely unselfish man, howl in sheer agony as his energy was ripped from him and sent to Methos.

Methos saw the tears that streaked down the pale cheeks and eyes tightly shut against the pain. He saw the tendons standing out and veins almost popping out of his skin with the sheer amount of pain and something deep inside him, something that was cold and buried very, very deeply come to the fore and unfreeze a little.

No one ever suffered for him like that.

No one ever risked so much for him.

No one ever loved him like that.

Because now he believed, believed that Duncan MacLeod did love him. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t any interest, no crush… only real love, deep one would push him to offering so much out of himself.

Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he saw the way Duncan kept him, was holding him, just to make sure that he would receive as much of Duncan’s energy as he possibly could.

Such a stupid, stupid Highlander to risk so much to save his skinny ass.

Now, lying awake and feeling the still sleeping form behind him, Methos realized that was had no idea what to do next.

He couldn’t nor did he wish to cut the Scot off. Part of it was his survival instinct, but another part however… that part was stupid and sentimental, and thought to be buried forever.

Well, Methos must have been mistaken.

He fought to keep his muscles relaxed when he sensed that the other man was slowly starting to wake up. He wanted to talk to him, but was afraid of the things he might say, of the weaknesses he might show.

God, how he hated that emotional crap!


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 19

Duncan watched the feline, golden-gray eyes search for him and then focus on him with disturbing intensity.

Methos looked much better today. The Quickening they shared, the energy he gave to the older man, made him stronger. The signs of starvation, although still prominent, were no longer the dominating part of his looks.

His arms, still thin after his own body used the muscles to keep him alive, looked so fragile… it made Duncan want to protect this man from everything evil in this world. 

He knew it was foolish. After all this man had survived over 5, 000 years without any help, but still that pale, lean body now so thin and fragile called to all of the instincts instilled in him as a chieftain’s son. To protect, to nurture him back to health. The fact that he loved him didn’t help matters.

He remembered their only time together. He couldn’t say, with a clear conscience, that he regretted it. No. He did want Methos, desired him with a strength he knew only with Tessa. But their previous coupling had a bitter taste to it. It was controlled by Methos and turned into something impersonal. It was just a fuck, while he wanted to worship Methos with his love. 

Still he was surprised at how… right it felt. He was never a homophobe. But he was strictly heterosexual for all of his 400 years. When he imagined how it would be with Methos, if he was ever given the chance to know him intimately, he always thought he would be nervous, feel awkward faced with a naked male body. 

But he felt nothing like that. Only fire. Fire and life and joy burning in his veins so strongly, that everything else was lost. Whatever initial concerns he had about being intimate with another man, vanished. It was really no different from his other relationships. It was about love and giving pleasure and everything that was left was only a technicality, it was something that he could learn. 

“Um… Good morning.” He risked, seeing that the older man wasn’t going to say anything. 

To his astonishment, Methos suddenly looked shy and looked away, letting his lids with sinfully long lashes, hide his eyes from Duncan. Right then, he looked so much like the Adam he knew, that his throat tightened.

“Morning.” Came the quiet reply.

Duncan wasn’t sure what to say about last night. What happened between them was very personal and very… strange. Now, when Methos was awake and safe, Duncan couldn’t exactly remember what had happened. He wasn’t sure if the sense of other Presence had only been his imagination. 

“How are you feeling?” Duncan asked softly. He noticed that Methos did nothing to move away from him and it gave him a strange, warm, fuzzy feeling to know that Methos trusted him enough to lie with him in a bed, weaponless and so vulnerable. He was sure that the night before it wouldn’t have happened.

“I… I’m fine.” Suddenly the hazel eyes lifted to him again. “What you did yesterday… it was very dangerous. What were you thinking Highlander?! To let some foreign force into you like that? It was pure idiotism! You have no idea what could have happened!” 

Duncan felt a stupid grin tug at the corners of his mind. He stopped listening to the all too familiar words and instead listened to the beautiful, accented, sexy voice. He felt… happy. Methos was giving him the speech about his lack of brain cells that probably got frozen in the Highlands of Scotland while he was young and left him lacking in the mental department. He was raving about his stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness, just like he did in the days of their friendship and right then, Duncan knew that everything would be okay. 

Even if Methos never regained memories about him, Joe, Amanda and Richie, it didn’t matter. Because he still remembered him. Not in his mind, but in his heart. 

Feeling foolishly happy, Duncan suddenly leaned over Methos and silenced him with a kiss. The older Immortal actually yelped in surprise when the soft, warm lips touched him with a gentleness that moved something inside him.

The lips moved over his slowly, sensuously, caressing and not trying to deepen the almost chaste kiss. It felt awkward to feel MacLeod smile into the kiss.

Their lips were the only place of contact between them. Although Duncan was in the same bed with him, dressed only in his boxers, he wasn’t touching the older man. 

Just the lips. 

Duncan felt the man beneath him tense at the first contact, but refused to be deterred by it. He knew that Methos was a fiercely private man that kept his distance, especially physically, no matter how relaxed he seemed to by watchers.

Slowly, he set his mind on warming those thin, expressive lips that were too often pressed into a cynical, tight line or a wry smile that held no happiness. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours of waiting, he felt Methos relax under him. The lips softened and parted minimally, letting him know that deepening the kiss was now okay.

Duncan was awed how… shy… Methos seemed. The day before he was all aggressive passion and challenging attitude, drawing the aggression that Duncan kept carefully hidden out into the open. Now he was careful, almost tender and shy, as if not sure what to do. 

It saddened Duncan to think that this man, a 5, 000 year old Immortal knew so little tenderness in his life, that experiencing it from Duncan, threw him off balance easily, when so little things could.

Mac cherished the scent of the other man’s body - musky and enticing, making his desire stir, but refused to be pushed from the road he chose.

Slowly, as if dealing with a wild, frightened animal he slid his tongue between the moist, now lightly swollen lips and touched the smooth teeth there. He wanted to touch to caress the other man, but was wary of causing the same reaction as the day before. He wanted it to be about love and tenderness not the wild, animal like passion from their previous encounter.

So far, Methos was acting like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in place by Mac’s tenderness, but when he got the first taste of the hot, moist cavern of his mouth he came back to life. 

Mac felt the shift of muscles in that slender, too fragile chest, and then those long, graceful fingers he fantasized so much about, buried themselves in his long hair and pulled his head closer.

He felt Methos deepen the kiss and pull his tongue into a duel of slick and hot passion that suddenly overtook them. Methos tilted his head back, angling so that Mac could have better, deeper access and Duncan vaguely wondered if he knew what he was doing? That he was making himself vulnerable, exposing his throat in the ageless gesture of trust and submission?

His thoughts were soon stopped when he felt the man beneath him shift suddenly and turn them so that Duncan was on his back, and Methos was half lying on him. His soft, washed god knows how many times tee, brushed over Mac’s bare chest, causing him to shiver. 

Methos kissed him with even more fire, devouring his mouth in fierce kiss, but there was no trace of that calculated challenge from the day before. Only passion.

Not wanting to scare the Old Man, having a good idea what he was remembering in those flashbacks, he let him exert as much control as he needed. Mac was aware of the fact that he was physically twice as strong as Methos and the other man was still very weak, no matter how well he concealed it. 

Duncan’s head was kept in place by a strong grip on his hair and he groaned when Methos started a slow, rocking motion letting his tee shirt brush over and over again the naked, over-sensitive nipples, bringing Mac’s arousal to a higher level.

MacLeod couldn’t lie still any more. He had to do something, touch and caress. Very consciously, he opened his eyes to see the other man’s eyes, now nearly gold staring back at him with equal passion and… trust that wasn’t there before. Methos broke the kiss and licked his swollen lips, never breaking the stare and moved up a little.

Mac felt the wariness in the other man building. He watched Methos look at him. Really look. Take in the powerful muscles and a body made for strength. He watched as Methos’ eyes lost their previous openness and lidded with something different, something he didn’t like one bit.  
Methos took one of his hands and brushed his thumb over the palm, probably thinking just how much damage those hand could do. Duncan was surprised to be able to understand the man so well, but right now he had to reassure Methos that he was in control, that Duncan wasn’t a threat to him.

He closed his eyes and let his hands fall to the bed along his body and then tilted his head back, exposing his throat to Methos, making himself as vulnerable as he possibly could.

The gesture not only one of submission, a sign of trust, but also an invitation. He was hard, and he knew Methos could feel it by the thigh that was pressed to his crotch. 

And Methos knew it for what it was. Mac could sense it through their link. The surprise, the tenderness in the other man’s thoughts and the still very real desire.

After what seemed hours, but was probably just seconds, he felt a light, almost not there brush on his tender, kiss-swollen lips and then the moist touch on his neck, sending shivers as the tongue and open lips traced the tendon all the way to his shoulder and then back to behind his ear, nipping gently and causing shiver after shiver to run through his body.

Taking it for the invitation it was, Duncan finally reached for the other man, touching his waist and then drawing his hands up along the thin sides, feeling all the ribs sticking out and the lack of muscles under the softest skin he could ever imagine. He was suddenly torn between two opposite desires.

He wanted to ravish this man, fuck and make love to him, until he wouldn’t be able to leave anymore and to…

… feed him. 

He blinked once and then again when the thought finally registered in his mind. He actually felt his desire lessen and knew, with the utmost certainty, that he could not make love to Methos before he fed him, because he would feel guilty. The urge to nurture in his mind had already overrode all other instincts.

Gently, he pushed Methos away from devouring his neck and sat up. He looked into baffled gold eyes, and took in the disheveled, panting picture of his soon to be lover. There was desire and surprise in his face, as well as a little exhaustion. And once again, Duncan remembered that Methos was always obfuscating when it came to his health.

He was still very weak and exhausted, not from the starvation for so many weeks, constant dying, insomnia and tension, but also from the night before. He felt bad for not realizing it sooner.

“What are you doing Highlander?” Asked the man suspiciously when Duncan got up. Methos did nothing to hide the tell-tale bulge in his sweats, only leaned back, exposing it all the more, daring Mac to do something about it.

“I’m going to feed you.” 

It was Methos’s turn to blink. Twice.

“Excuse me?!” He nearly hissed not sure he wanted to laugh or to break the Highlander’s neck. “I think there is some unfinished business between us…” 

Just then his stomach growled loudly, forcing him to stop in mid sentence. 

Duncan couldn’t believe his eyes. Methos actually blushed! He smiled at the flustered man on the bed and extended a hand to him.

“Come. You should take a long shower and I’ll make you breakfast.” Mac waited patiently until Methos decided what to do. Finally, convinced by the hunger he just realized he was feeling, Methos took his hand and allowed Mac to help him to his feet.

Duncan looked at the slim figure that had started to regain its usual feline grace and the sweats riding low on the gentle swell of his hips, exposing a patch of the white, soft skin of Methos’ abdomen and had to swallow.

He had to remind himself why he was doing it.

Yes.

Feed first.

Fuck later.

Taking a deep breath he steeled himself in his plans and then pulled Methos closer for a quick kiss.

“Take your time.” He whispered to the startled man and quickly left the bedroom, not wanting to put his will to the test.

Duncan had something to do before they continued what they just started. Hopefully, the Old Man would spend an hour in the shower, just like he always did.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 20

Methos leaned his forehead on the tiled wall and let the hot spray of water slide down his body. As much as he didn’t like it, he had to agree that MacLeod had a good idea. He really needed a shower.

The sweat that had saturated his clothes and skin last night left an unpleasant, sick smell on him and a nice, long, hot shower was just the thing to make him feel better.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror when he was undressing and winced. He looked terrible. All skin and bones. His ribs poked out from his chest and he could actually count them. 

No wonder Mac wanted to feed him.

He snickered at the memory. It was one of the most ridiculous mornings ‘after’ he ever had. None of his lovers turned him down to feed him!

He sighed and looked down his body at his still partially erect member. It was strange how strongly the Highlander affected him. He briefly considered taking care of his frustrated self, but dismissed the idea right away. There was a promise in Mac’s eyes when he left. Besides another living person was always better than his hand.

He sighed and turned his neck to the side, angling his neck so that the hot water hit his neck just so…

Suddenly his head jerked up when the link, he unconsciously opened before, flooded him with emotional pain and anguish. The feelings were deep, but not sharp edged. Whatever caused Duncan MacLeod to hurt wasn’t a recent thing. It must have been something that happened quite some time ago. Still, it unnerved him that Mac was hurting so suddenly and so strongly. In his mind, beyond his conscious thought, he had birthed the idea that to associate that pain with Duncan was somehow fundamentally wrong…

He decided to shorten his shower and see what happened. He was really looking forward to continuing their earlier idea, besides, when he focused on Duncan he didn’t have to think about himself and the madness that had taken over his life.

* * *

Duncan knew what he had to do. He wanted to make love to Methos, but he lacked the essential knowledge not to mention experience, to do this. So he decided to do something he could, but never actually did. It always seemed inappropriate and… scary.

He talked to other Immortals, friends mostly, what it was like for them to take Quickening. Wisely, he didn’t say much about himself just listened. Every time he heard the story about assimilating, integrating the other personality he knew he was different.

Others poke about flashes of memories during the actual Quickening and then a faint memory, almost not there after a few hours passed.

The Watchers would probably have a fit if they knew that he was different even from other Immortals.

He never forgot. Each time he took a Quickening, each time he took the whole essence of the defeated into himself. He had to protect himself from the onslaught of memories and emotions so early in his life, he learned a little trick that served him well for this day.

He made boxes. Small little boxes in his mind stacked neatly on invisible shelves with names on them. If he wanted, he could reach into one of these boxes and look through the knowledge of this particular person to learn what he needed. The only time it failed was during the Dark Quickening. That essence was different, more powerful and refused to be packed, boxed and sent aside. 

When he closed his eyes, he could see the rows of little boxes in front of him. Some dusty, never opened and some well worn, liked. Not all of the people he killed were his enemies. Those had a special place.

He shied away from a single box lying on the top shelf.

Richie

The very thought about touching it made his skin crawl. He never forgave himself for what happened, he just pretended for the sake of others.

Carefully, he walked along the shelves in his mind until he reached the one he was looking for. He briefly considered looking into memories of one of Methos’s lovers. He killed three of them after all. Kronos, Caspian and Byron. 

But it wasn’t right. It would be overstepping the tentative trust Methos had put in him. Besides he didn’t want any of the twisted ideas Caspian or Kronos might have associated with sex, nor the hedonistic and egoistic approach to love that Byron had. 

Slowly, with reverence he reached for the box that seemed to glow with some kind of light, as if the goodness trapped inside it was still alive, still bright, waiting for him.

Sean Burns.

A friend. A friend that he had killed under the influence of the Dark Quickening. It was only his goodness, his strength that allowed him to defeat the evil and come back to his senses.

Slowly, he pushed the lid and opened the box. The light that shone from it was soft and warm and enveloped him in feelings of affection and understanding.

Pain so deep and excruciating shot through him that his throat constricted and he wasn’t aware of a single tear that ran down his cheek as he allowed himself to feel his friends acceptance.

‘You are my friend Duncan. Whatever happened I am not blaming you…’

Those weren’t words. More feelings, memories of them together walking, talking, sharing their fears and experiences.

He remembered the time when Sean introduced him to the first lover he loved with all his heart. Never before or since, had Sean fallen so hard for anybody. Actually, Sean had never been in a long term relationship after his lover died.

A male lover.

With silent apology Duncan immersed himself in the sweet, love filled memories of Sean and his fair haired lover. They spend almost forty tears together. Forty beautiful, love filled years. But his lover was mortal and finally death took him away from Sean, leaving him lonely and longing to reunite with him someday.

It was what he wanted to know. Not some impersonal, technical stuff, but how to make love to a male body, how to cherish it and make sure not to hurt his lover.

Sean had to be extra careful with his mortal lover that didn’t have the added bonus of Immortal healing, and Duncan knew that the fragile state that Methos was in right now, called for similar treatment.

Methos reacted to tenderness, to simple physical contact like a long abused animal. With fear. Maybe Duncan wasn’t as experienced and long lived as his soon to be lover, but he had taken more Quickening in the last fifty years than others had during their whole life.

He understood that Methos’s way of provoking him, forcing him to act like an animal in heat, was a way to control the situation. He had a vague feeling, a memory of Kronos, mad with lust and desire, thinking only about the pleasure he could take from his Brother’s body, failing to notice the careful, long term plan unfolding just under his nose. 

He would not let Methos do it again. He would show him how good it can be between them. And he had a good chance to do that because Methos had decided to give him a chance, to trust him at least a little.

* * *

Methos watched the still man, standing in the middle of the kitchen with his eyes tightly closed and tears slowly flowing down his face.

There was something almost reverent in the way his body held so still. Methos was torn between the worry, the desire to stop the constant, low grade pain emanating from the Highlander through the link, and to step back and let him to his memories.

Because that’s what was going on. Duncan was lost in some bittersweet flashback, and this Methos could understand perfectly. Especially after last one and a half months.

Finally deciding, he stepped into the kitchen, expecting Duncan to react somehow to his presence, but he remained absolutely still.

Slowly, he touched the Highlanders shoulder and called him softly, not wanting startle him.

“Mac?”

The man blinked and his eyes found him immediately. He gasped at the warmth in those pools of brown liquid.

Warmth and love that shone through the eyes that were wiser that anybody could suspect.

“Are you all right?” He asked, sensing that Mac still wasn’t completely with him.

“Yes.”

Duncan smiled at him and the smile transformed his face, highlighting his pure masculine beauty in a way that made Methos’s cock react immediately. Heat surged through his body at the sight in front of him.

“Are you sure?” He asked again and reached his hand to touch the moisture on the other man’s stubbled cheek. 

Mac frowned for the first time realizing that he was crying and before Methos pulled his hand away, he grabbed his wrist and sucked the salty finger into his moist, hot mouth staring straight into Methos eyes and observing with pleasure as his pupils dilated while he sucked gently and swirled his tongue around the slender finger.

Methos gasped and swayed a little at the Highlander’s shameless display. Gods, he wanted that man!

Just when he wanted to suggest that they skipped the breakfast and returned to the bedroom, his stomach growled again, shrieking at him for food.

He smiled awkwardly, a little embarrassed and still incredibly aroused at MacLeod. It was strange to actually feel a little shy with this man. He couldn’t remember the last time he reacted like that to anyone.

With a start he realized that it was never.

“Come.” Mac tugged on his wrist once more, pulling him towards the kitchen table. “The breakfast is almost ready.”


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 21

I watched her for a very long moment before I decided to move. She made a picture of breathtaking beauty standing there, on the beach in the faint, cold light of morning, with her eyes closed and face raised slightly to the sky. There was an almost sensual pleasure on her face when the chilly wind moved her long, blonde hair and swirled the silky tendrils around her shoulders.

She was dressed in tight jeans and some kind of blouse with long sleeves. On top of it she had a short denim jacket. No where to hide a sword.

As a Watcher, it was so very strange to observe an Immortal that did not carry a sword.

Walking over the sand was hard with artificial legs and a cane, but it didn’t deter me. I had to ask her, make her answer me.

Why had she slept with me? Did she really desire me? Or was it a plan of hers?

She didn’t move, but she had to be aware of me behind her. Still she remained motionless, her body turned towards the restless ocean.

Finally she moved and turned to look at me with those eternal, black eyes. I have known some old Immortals- Amanda over 1,000 years old, Methos over   
5, 000, but none of them had such an ancient eyes. I wonder, for the thousandth time, just how old she really is.

She didn’t react on seeing me. No surprise, no anger that I have obviously followed her, nor even curiosity.

She just stood there, eternal and strangely foreign in her ideal beauty, and waited. It seemed as though she could wait for ages.

“You broke into MacLeod’s loft.” I blurted out finally.

Great it was a mature thing to do! But I felt so hurt; so betrayed that she could have used me. But on the other hand, she had helped him to find Methos. From the e-mail that Mac sent me I knew that the Old Man was in terrible state. Mac of course didn’t say it clearly, but I got the feeling that he was afraid that he could loose the Old Man. That Adam could die… permanently.

“Yes.” She answered me calmly.

There was no guilt, no shame in her expression. She just watched me with those ageless dark eyes and waited for my reaction. And in that exact moment, I understood that, no matter what, I could never understand her, never know her inside. She wasn’t like Methos, who stayed human even though he lived for so incredibly long. She, on the other hand, changed, drifted so far away from all things human that someone as earthy as me, could never grip the essence that was her.

I could only hope that she was on our side…  
“Why are you here?” I asked knowing perfectly well that she wouldn’t answer me. 

She looked at the ocean once again. Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her.

“To finish something that was started a long, long time ago…”

I stared at her back and wondered at her words.

“Is Adam a part of this… unfinished business?”

She was silent for so long I thought she would not answer at all.

“He is the cause.” Came the final reply. She never looked at me and failed to see my reaction to her voice as it suddenly lost all of it’s warmth. Before, she always spoke in a soft, friendly manner. Even when I accused her of burglary. But now, her voice still soft and quiet though it had lost all of its warmth and only a fatal finality was left.

I had a sense that people would start dying soon.

We were standing there in the chilly, morning wind for several long minutes, both staring at the restless ocean and thinking dark thoughts when she suddenly tensed. It wasn’t anything overly obvious, just a minimal difference in the set of her shoulders and something in her body language that I came to associate with the approach of another immortal.

When I looked back, I saw a man standing a good distance from us. He had long, straight black hair that reached halfway down his back. The mane was loose and swaying in the wind. He wore a long, black coat that made him look like a character from a gothic horror story. His face was pale and strangely beautiful with an intoxicating mix of male and female features. He was almost too smooth to be a man, too beautiful, yet his jaw and nose and the set of straight brows spoke clearly of his gender. 

For a long time, I stared at him unable to tear my gaze away. While Ash was incredibly beautiful, she was almost unaware of her appeal. I mean she knows, mentally, that she is one hell of an attractive woman, but there is no seduction in her movements or words.

This guy on the other hand, could define the term of sex on a stick. The way he moved, the subtle tilt of his head gave him an incredibly sensual aura.

He reached us, his gaze still locked on the back of Ash’s head.

“The car is ready.” He spoke in a soft, gentle voice.

Without any answer Ash just nodded and strode in the direction where man came from. I felt as if I was invisible. Not Ash, nor the man acknowledged me in any way, so I was surprised when he didn’t follow her, but stayed beside me. He looked at me and patiently waited until I gave him my whole attention. I was surprised by the sheer… gentleness and goodness I saw in his eyes. Ash was guarded, her eyes didn’t betray anything. He, on the other hand, seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Tell your friend… that he should avoid taking Quickening at any cost. The memories… the pain he suffers are embedded, encoded into the Quickening of his attackers.” Not waiting for a reply, he turned back and walked away leaving me there, with my jaw hanging open and dark thoughts swirling inside my mind.

* * *

Ash looked at the lean man seating himself in the driver seat. His face looked so young… he must have been about twenty when he first died. He was approximately 1,500 years old and had never taken a head. He did not fight, did not kill… and rarely even got angry. She never could understand his lack of hate. If she had ever been subjected to such hurt and humiliation like him, she would have found no rest before she killed each and every one of her abusers in the most torturous way her mind could invent.

But he didn’t. He was just grateful to be away from them.

“What did you tell him, Cross?” She asked, watching his green eyes carefully through the rear view mirror.

“Just what he needed to know.”

She waited, but he didn’t add anything more. It was very rare for him to defy her in such an obvious manner. During the last 1,200 years that she had known him, she’d gotten used to his wordless loyalty. He was an empath, like herself. Just she had also major telepathic abilities, while he didn’t. Usually, she could read his mind without any difficulty, because he let her enter, opened himself to her mental probe. But every time there was this tiny, little corner in his mind that he kept locked from her. Respecting his wishes, she never probed there. If she used force, she could easily find his secret, her mind would cut through his like a hot knife through butter, but she refrained from such means. He wasn’t an enemy. He was a friend.

“You shouldn’t interfere. It’s my business.” She chastised him softly, watching him drive calmly and effectively through the half empty streets.

Green eyes locked with hers for a brief moment in the mirror.

“You are going to use him. Just like the Master wants.”

She narrowed her eyes in sudden anger that each mentioning of Master sparkled in her, but resisted the urge to snap at Cross. He was a friend. Probably the only one she ever had.

“Do not compare me to him.” 

Cross did not answer, but noticed tat she didn’t deny his accusation. The Ancient One was just a figure in the game those two played for as long as they existed.

Sensing her distress and traces of anger he tried to reach with his mind to her, projecting soothing emotions. After initial resistance, she let him in and accepted his help.

After a half hour drive, they reached a small, secluded house. Cross parked the in the garage, so that no one would notice the car and them together.

He watched her go to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tee. She did the same thing when she was last awake - almost 500 years ago.

He could remember that time with startling quality. But it shouldn’t surprise him at all. She was always very important to him.

They met 1,200 ago. He was a slave in an eastern brothel. And it was killing him little by little. He was already on the edge of madness from 300 years of slavery and abuse. He was not only empath, although a weak one, but also a hermaphrodite. Thanks to his unique physical features he was used as a body slave from his youth. People were always willing to pay great money to be able to fuck a man that along with male genitalia, had a vagina. All that cruelty and sick lust surrounding him, jacking into his mind like a hot knife, drove him mad from pain and hurt. He longed for death that did not come… ‘Till he met Ash.

It was one of the rare times she was awake from her hibernation, traveling the earth in search of things that would have an important role in her plans someday in the future. 

Although she had incredible power, she still had basic needs and stayed in an Inn that also his current master did. He was being sold from one brothel to another and his master was moving him to his new place of torture, when they stopped in the Inn to rest.

The master couldn’t wait to try out his new slave as soon as the door behind him closed, he started working Cross with a whip. He was very pale and most of his owners loved the sight of burning red welts on his skin before they fucked him, like a used piece of meat.

Their room was next to the one Ash was in, and she got aggravated by the screams. She could easily sense that there was an Immortal, but she assumed that it was the master.

Even now, after all those centuries, Cross still remembered the sight of her, standing in the doorway with an aggravated expression that slowly turned into rage when she took in the situation.

Blood on his body, welts and shackles were enough to tell her who was the slave there. 

It was the only time when Cross witnessed her kill. Of course, during the years they were together, she killed many times, but never again in his presence. He never before saw an Immortal die, nor killed anybody and his untrained, raw empathy showed him all that pain, hatred, death in the energy. It took him almost a year to get over witnessing the death of an Immortal. If he ever took a Quickening, it would surely kill him.

She took him from that Inn, as a winner of a challenge, she had the right to take everything that belonged to the defeated. Including him.

Cross thought she would sell him, just like others did, but instead she brought him to a safe place, a temple and explained him who and what he was, about the rules of the Game and the Holy Ground.

After 300 years of slavery he still barely spoke, didn’t know how to write or read. He knew nothing about being free and actually living. She helped him. Her telepathy allowed her to ease the shock of witnessing the Quickening and she made his memories of slavery seem far away and harmless. Then she taught him as much as she could.

After 20 years she left the sanctuary, leaving him with the priests. During that time he realized that he could heal mental illnesses thanks to his empathy. He was able to live by his own.

She never told him why she left, but he learned the truth anyway. She never told him that she tracked down each and every master and owner that he had and tortured them to death. 

She came back to see him before she went into hibernation again. To wish him luck and give him money, so that he was able to start living on his own for a change. However he refused to part with her.

He accompanied her to that incredible temple inside the mountain where she was falling ‘asleep’ and when she was unconscious again, vowed to take care of her. He promised her his services and his soul, because he knew that he loved her. More that anything and anybody.

And the feeling survived through 1,200 years of their friendship. That was the secret he refused to show her. He was afraid that she would send him away if she knew about his feelings. He never had any illusions about her. She could be as cold and cruel as the darkest of souls. When she saw him after waking up next, she took what he offered - his services. From that day he was a friend, a spy, and a whore to her means. The last thing he hated with vengeance. He hated when she asked him to seduce somebody in order to gain information or manipulate them into something. Throughout the years it was women, but mostly men. They were always entranced by his unique anatomy.

“What have you learned by now?” 

Her voice jerked him out of his reverie.

“Not much. The master wants Hudson to find another Immortal and embed the memories in his mind before sending him to find the Ancient One.”

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. It was always strange that having so much power, she could not get even close to the Master without him detecting her. So she used him. 

His natural mental shields and tricks she taught him allowed him to create an illusion inside his mind. Each time his mind was invaded by other telepath, the attacker only saw what Cross wanted him to.

“Was I right?” She asked softly.

Cross swallowed his sudden anger and hurt. She wasn’t doing it on purpose. She didn’t want to hurt him, nor did she force him into anything. He was doing it because the very thought of leaving her, was tearing him apart. He loved her so much, that he was willing to whore for her. Something he promised never to do again.

“About Hudson? Yes. As soon as he realized what a… freak… I am, he went absolutely crazy. It seems that the prospect of fucking a hermaphrodite is as much a thrill as it was 1,500 years ago.”

He wanted to bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t surprised to feel her mental probe after his thoughtless words. He always was very careful to hide his hurt from her. 

She watched him with big, ageless black eyes and her mind softly invaded him in a gentle, almost sensual manner seeking for an answer to the question that was never asked.

When she realized that he was not going to explain his uncharacteristic words, she turned away and withdrew her probe.

“Good. Go back to him and report to me as soon as something happens.”


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 22

Methos shifted on the bed, not sure how he got himself into this situation in the first place. 

One moment he was eating breakfast, another he agreed to ‘trust’ the Highlander. Then he was led to the Scot’s bedroom and ordered to undress, lie on the bed face down, make himself comfortable and ‘relax’!-for god’s sake! How was he going to relax having no weapon around??

No matter how much his mind, his common sense and survival instincts screamed against the action he did as he was asked, wondering what the Highlander had planned.

After a few more minutes MacLeod came back. He could not only sense the increase in the Presence, but he could also hear soft footsteps. The sound of bare feet padding gently on the wooden floor was strangely… soothing.

Methos shook himself internally from such stupid thoughts. His mind reminded him just how ‘powerful’ the Scot was. How strong. How deadly, but something else deeper and rarely listened to, insisted that he was, indeed, safe with the other man.

The link also reassured him. He could sense slight nervousness, but over all there was gentleness and care emanating form the younger Immortal.

He listened in silence as Mac shuffled around the room, then he heard the scrape of a match and realized that the man must be lighting the candles.

He turned his head to the side and watched Duncan. The man was dressed in soft, silk kata pants and was bare-chested. There were dozens of candles on every available surface in the room and there was a small bowl placed above one of the candles, heating scented oil. The scents of lilac and lemon grass drifted through the air towards him and he felt himself relax a little more.

Still, he couldn’t take his eyes from the broad back and shoulders of the other man, admiring the shift and flex of powerful, well defined muscles under the bronzed skin.

“Where did you get them?” Asked Methos, wanting to interrupt the strangely intense moment; he was unsettled with his own desire for the other Immortal.

Duncan looked over his shoulder at him, his hair still in a ponytail, and smiled softly.

“Old houses like this always have a stash of candles somewhere.”

Methos watched him finish lighting the candles and understood that no matter how it looked, this wasn’t anything sexual.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What are you going to do?”

Duncan smiled at his sudden suspiciousness, not put off at all by it and answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I am going to give you a massage. You are too tense.”

Methos groaned. His groin was tight and pulsing already and this… child!… wanted to give him a massage to relax him! Ha!

“I think that I know a better way to …relax… me”

Duncan sat on the edge of the bed, seemingly unaffected by the naked man on his bed except for the bulge in his loose pants, and said:

“I want it also. But you don’t trust me.”

“I am lying, bare-assed on your bed, without any weapon with another Immortal in the room, and you tell me I don’t trust you?!!”

Duncan sighed and then without warning, put his hand on the slender, too thin back of the older Immortal.

The muscles beneath Mac’s hand immediately turned into steel.

Methos was quiet, only his slightly quickened breathing showing his surprise.

“You may trust me on the intellectual level but your body, your baser instincts fight what is happening here. When I touched you without warning, your body immediately switched into ‘fight or flight’ mode. Don’t you think I can see the distrust in you? The way you watch each of my movements? The way you probe the link between us every few minutes making sure I have no dangerous plans?” He kept stroking the warm, naked back marveling at the silky smooth skin under his calloused fingers 

“I want you to get used to my touch, to trust my proximity.”

“I am not some kind of wild animal that needs to be housebroken!” Came the immediate riposte.

“Are you not, really?”

Methos did not answer. Damn that Highlander child! Just how much did he know about his flashbacks?

“Let me do this Methos. After all, even if I don’t succeed in anything, you will have a massage. Is it such a bad idea?”

Methos sighed loudly and closed his eyes.

Damn the highlander. He always seemed to convince him to do things so fundamentally against all his instincts.  
“You won highlander. Do your worst.”

He could hear a small chuckle from the other man, but didn’t open his eyes. It occurred to him that he did want it. That he wanted to trust Duncan on all levels.

He never noticed that during their whole conversation, Duncan kept stroking his back with a gentle hand. 

Mac took a generous amount of warmed oil in his hands and applied it to the tense shoulders, starting to work them in earnest and ignoring the hisses and muffled protest of “damn it Highlander, are you trying to peel my skin off my shoulders?!” and tried to loose the tense muscles there.

He marveled at the silky touch of that skin, pale and smooth like an alabaster figure. Even with evidence of his latent starvation, his body was still all hard muscles and masculine planes.

Mac watched his hands move from his shoulders to the center of his back, pushing, massaging, stroking until the skin was flushed pink and hot from the blood. 

Methos was a male. Such an obvious statement, but so true! Each time his hands touched the older Immortal’s body he could feel the masculinity in him. The shift of muscles that women simply hadn’t defined, the sounds, probably unintentional, were unmistakably male and thrilled Mac all the more.

Watching the long, lean body of a runner so intimately for the first time in his life, MacLeod noticed the things he could only guess at earlier. The sheer power of that sleek body made his own blood all the more hot and the scent of the candles and warmed oil all the more pungent in the air.

He watched his hands move in an old, well known pattern of relaxing touches, the healing massage easing tension from both mind, body and soul. The round, gentle swell of hard buttocks and the tensing of the body underneath his hands. He kept his touch carefully neutral, devoid of anything sexual, while his eyes feasted on the expanse of naked flesh in front of him. 

He kneaded the firm mounds of flesh assessing their strength, the stamina that they granted Methos, the sensual, sinful gracefulness of his movements and felt a strange tightness in his throat. 

Finally he moved lower, on the sleek, powerfully muscled thighs always hidden under old, worn out jeans or other ratty clothes. 

Duncan worked first one thigh then the other, knuckles of his hand touching between the lightly spread thighs and coaxing Methos silently to grant him more space. This time, when his hand slid between the oiled thighs, with a soft exhalation of breath, Methos shifted his legs, giving him more space to work without tensing this time.

With patience and gentleness that surprised even himself, Mac worked on the muscles and flesh offered to him with such precarious trust.

After reaching the feet he spent quite a long time massaging them, sending pleasurable shivers up Methos’s body.

Finally, there came time to turn Methos over. Mac was heavily aroused, his loose pants not doing much to conceal his erection.

He also knew that Methos reacted similarly. This simple gesture to turn over, to expose himself naked and aroused to Mac’s eyes and hands in a non-sexual way was a final test of the trust Methos promised to offer.

* * *

Methos knew what Duncan wanted from him when he finished massaging his feet. His whole body tingled from the extensive, deep massage it had been subjected to. He was in a strange state between utter relaxation and arousal. His cock strained and twitched under him, while his body seemed boneless.

At first the touch of broad, strong and calloused hands on his vulnerable back sent whispers of fear down his body. There was something so utterly wrong with letting other Immortal have so much power over him, yet he fought it, trying to consciously relax, to let his body actually enjoy the sure touch.

The calm, measured movements spoke volumes of the man’s experience in this and slowly, gradually Methos felt himself relax into the touch. Even when Mac’s hands drifted on the more intimate regions, his body gave only a token resistance before surrendering into the touch; trusting to be kept safe and cherished.

Cherished.

This was what was different from the thousands of other massages he had in his long life. Some given by masseurs, some by lovers, some by whores… but never did he feel so worshipped and protected.

There was nothing sexual in the Highlander’s touch, but the gentle awe and constant arousal drifting to him throughout the link made him feel all the layers of thoughts as one incredible sensation. Warm and soothing… something that filled him with wonder and longing he could not recall from earlier.

For once, his mind that always prompted him to fight against any kinds of bond; that interpreted desire and longing as a dangerous dependency, was silent.

Without a word of acknowledgement, without a sound, Methos shifted his weight and turned to lie on his back, knowing that this simple gesture gave Duncan all the answers he needed.

tbc


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 23

Methos met the warm, brown pools of affection and desire in Duncan’s face and held the other man’s gaze half challengingly, half soothingly. He lay prone on the bed, naked as the day he was born and with a significant erection jutting out from the nest of dark curls, watching Mac; his eyes filled with silent permission to watch him. 

They were silent, the moment had no need for words, which were such a inaccurate, failing way to communicate the intensity of what lay between them.

Methos watched the powerful, bronzed chest of the Highland warrior expand in a shuddering inhale as he fought to control his own passion.

These games Methos knew well, the tempting with his body, the power-plays of bare flesh and desire.

But there was no place for them in that small, candle-scented room. Risking something he kept hidden for the last few millennia, he opened himself, letting Duncan see everything he wanted, everything he possibly wanted to see in Methos.

Each thought, each fear was plainly written in his eyes, his skin flushed in equal parts from desire and shyness. 

He had no idea how long they stared at each other, frozen in place, barely breathing, letting the link between them expand as much as possible. Then finally, the tension became too much. 

He could no longer wait, no longer delay what was inevitable between them.

In that moment, no matter his attitude to that revelation, Methos realized that he belonged to this strangely gentle Highland warrior. That no matter how he disliked the idea, it was the truth. No matter how many times he swore that he would not, under any circumstances belong to another person again, he broke his own woes.

For what? For whom?

For this Highland Child.

In one swift movement, he was up and kneeling next to Mac on the bed, his own lean figure appearing almost fragile in contrast to the powerfully muscled form of the other man.

Still silent, letting his actions speak louder than words, Methos leaned closer to Mac and touched his lips with his own, initiating the kiss for the very first time. Giving it to Duncan in exchange for the one he refused the day before.

He more felt more than saw the deep, shuddering breath the other man took and then felt the lips part willingly before him, to let his questing tongue inside. Surrendering to him.

It was such a heady aphrodisiac to have such a powerful warrior so pliant in his hands. He kissed him slowly and deeply, keeping the desire at bay, not wanting it to be about lust. Not now, not quite yet.

First, he needed to make sure Duncan understood just what he meant by that kiss - apology, acceptance, willingness to at least try to trust him.

He that Duncan MacLeod from the Clan MacLeod would not allow it to be anything else. There would be no quick, mindless fuck. Only slow, sweet love…

Finally, he felt the strong arms come up and touch his wrists, where they were clenched on Duncan’s shoulders.

He shivered, feeling the soft, almost not there touch of oil slicked, hot fingers trailing up his forearms, stopping to trace some random patterns on the insides of his elbows and then traveling higher, up to his neck.

There was something wildly sensual about those hands, calloused from battle and sword wielding, on his vulnerable neck.

For 5,000 years he had done everything that was possible to protect his neck; an instinct that guided most of the Immortals. Having it touched by a man that held enough power to crush his neck in one single move held an explosive load of excitement. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as his slow kiss began to end. He sensed that Duncan was refraining from more direct touches because he understood the significance of that kiss they shared.

When they parted, they were both breathing fast and shallow, their passion reflected in their eyes.

The static moment seemed to stretch forever, when suddenly Mac changed. The gentle, eternally patient man disappeared and the intense warrior showed up in his place. Brown eyes that held so much gentleness were now filled with passion, a fire that threatened to burn him alive.

The grip on his neck became stronger, the strength behind those beautifully defined arms became evident when the Scot applied pressure, forcing Methos back.

The gentle caring man was gone and in his place was a demanding, passionate force that threatened to burn Methos to his soul.

But he felt like a moth that was drawn to the flame, even at the cost of its death.

He let himself be pushed backwards and sank on the bed, with the Highlander’s powerful chest pressing his own heated one.

Without tearing his molten gaze from Methos, Duncan run his left hand along Methos’s flank all the way to the bare, strangely vulnerable hip in a possessive gesture that sent shivers of pleasure up Methos’ spine.   
“I want you…” Whispered Duncan in soft, yet darkly heated voice “I want to posses you, to become part of you.” He whispered while his possessive, but still gentle hand traveled along the bared flesh learning, memorizing new territory.

Methos shivered when Mac moved his hips so that his silk clad hard-on brushed his own aching shaft.

One hand kept Methos’s head tilted back, leaving his throat exposed and vulnerable, forcing him to look Duncan in the eye while the other traced his skin, enflaming him even more. And the words were their own kind of sweet torture.

“I want to be buried so deep inside you, that you will never again be able to forget me. Never become apart… never alone… with me buried so deep, embedded into your very soul…” 

He was shivering uncontrollably when finally that wicked mouth descended onto his exposed throat, suckling until there was a mark.

The wandering hand found his erection and closed around it, but did nothing more, only letting Methos feel the heat and slickness of the rough hand and driving him mad.

He arched under the significant weight of the man above him and found his movements restricted by the thigh that pinned his legs flat to the bedding and chest pushing on his own.

Suddenly, the insistent sucking on the vulnerable skin of his neck changed into not-so-gentle scrape of teeth.

An uncontrollable tremor ran through Methos when he felt the touch of teeth, Duncan asserting his control in the most primitive of ways and the instinct was there. Either fight or submit and this time there was no will to fight in Methos. So he submitted.

Arching his neck, granting Duncan all the access he wanted, Methos finally gave up fighting. He understood that he would get everything he wanted, but he had to have it given to him. This time he could not simply take what he needed. He had to have it given to him by Duncan. When and how he wanted it.

With a half frustrated, half plaintive whimper he let go of his token resistance and snaked his hands around the broad shoulders, tracing with his fingertips the ridges and valleys of the flexing muscles.

“I want to mark you… put a permanent mark on you, make sure that you and everyone else knows you are mine… Body and soul…” Came the husky whisper, while Duncan was tracing his line of wet, open mouthed kisses to his nipples and flicking his tongue over one and then, shockingly, scrapping the other with teeth.

Methos jerked, forgetting all about the other hand still closed over the rigid flesh of his cock and his nails dug deep into the flesh of Duncan’s back.

“Please…” He moaned, incoherent with need and something more, something much more devastating.

“I warn you Methos… once I take you… I will never, ever let you go…” There was raw power and dark promise in those words, but in that instant Methos could only think that he couldn’t remember the time when he was wanted so much, desired…

“ I love you Methos…”

… loved.

Mac’s mouth seemed to be everywhere. Suckling on his ear, licking his bellybutton, caressing the hard nipples with the hot, wet tongue and whispering all the broken phrases, the most primitive and most true words of love and possession, making Methos feel as it was not his body taken, but his soul as well by the Highland warrior.

After what seemed to be hours of teasing touches, gentle and rough kisses and scrapes of teeth, Duncan stopped his assault on Methos’s body and shifted granting Methos space to move.

Methos felt strangely bereft when the restraining weight was taken from him. He found that his wishes were not to be free, but to be so deep in Duncan that there was no room for anything else.

“Please… Don’t stop…” He whispered brokenly, reaching for the man but Duncan leaned even farther backwards, out of reach, and sat on his heels beside Methos.

“I can’t take what is not given…” The brown eyes, now nearly black with desire swept over his flushed, glistening, sweat-soaked skin to the straining, angry red member jutting in the air and then back to his eyes.

“Give yourself to me…”

Shocked into movement by the incredible intensity of the gaze, Methos swallowed in understanding of what Mac wanted from him.

A pledge.

A woe.

An offering.

Closing his eyes and licking his suddenly dry, swollen lips he answered:

“Yes…”


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 24

Duncan watched the pale form stretch and reach to the bedside table where the warmer stood. Without hesitation Methos dipped his fingers into the warmed oil and then moved back on the bed, lying back on the mattress.

"Touch yourself…" He said in a surprisingly harsh tone while he got up from the bed and started divesting himself of the silk kata pants that were now slightly damp in front, his eyes focused on the straining erection jutting out of the patch of soft, curly dark locks and pale, pale thighs that threatened to drive him mad. 

He watched the agile hands of the older Immortal slide slowly down his fishnet clad torso, the long fingers sensually his stomach and then playing with the curls at the base of his member, not quite touching… he met Methos’s watching him, the pupils so dilated that there was only a thin band of gold left in his eyes.

Methos never looked away from him, while his one hand encircled his hard erection and started caressing gently, sliding his fist up and down that incredible column of swollen flesh. His eyes, his face open to Duncan, letting him see everything. The desire, the frustration, the fear and trust in them.

Mesmerized, he watched the other hand. The slim fingers that played with his hair for a brief moment, then moved to his face. He watched Methos close his eyes completely for a moment, like a big, sensual, dark feline and then trace his own brows and eyelids with just his fingertips, sighing softly at the sensation. The single sound reverberating through Duncan’s whole being.

Duncan could barely breathe seeing Methos like this. Naked… exposed, with his one hand caressing his cock and other softly touching his own face. Such hedonism, such pleasure taken from the simplest touch left Duncan absolutely helpless with desire and love.

There was trust. Methos was trusting him enough to expose himself like that, to show Duncan his pleasure in most intimate display he had ever seen.

Methos moaned, seemingly unaware of Logan’s gaze he moved his hand lower, between his widely open, long legs and closed the wet fingers glistening with oil, over the heavy sac, giving it a light pull and caressing it. 

Remembering his purpose, Duncan stripped quickly from the remains of his clothing and then moved to the bed, watching, waiting for the other man to acknowledge him. He was in awe of the sensual display and jealous simultaneously.

He wanted to touch Methos. HE wanted to give him pleasure… 

Mac sat on the bed, between those sinful legs that seemed to open just for him and dropped his gaze lower, staring at the little, puckered entrance to his lover’s body. A place he never even considered erotic was now the sole essence of his desires. The symbol of possession, of ultimate bonding.

Into one.

He touched those legs, stroking them, kneading the muscles lightly, all the time watching the older Immortal from the corner of his eyes. 

He looked up and caught Methos’ misted eyes as he slid his two slick fingers behind him and then between his cheeks, letting Duncan see everything, doing nothing to conceal himself from his insistent stare.

He gave himself to Duncan, opened his soul and everything that was in him.

Duncan still stroked his legs, watching those fingers circle the tight opening coating it liberally in the warm, slick oil and then one glossy finger pushing inside with a deceptive ease. He caught the soft exhale of air and the tremor that rocked the lithe body as the finger started slipping in and out.

He was in awe, almost frozen in place at the generous offering of his lover. He not only offered the body but also the fear, anxiousness and desire. Everything. Suddenly, he felt small and insignificant, humble in the face of such a gift.

Wanting to help Methos, to distract him from the intense heat that was building between them, Duncan bent down and licked the head of his straining cock causing an explosive sigh to leave the Old Man’s throat.

“Don’t…” Came the breathless plea “Can’t hold… don’t… just… just watch. Duncan… watch!”

Biting his lip, savoring the faint salty taste of his lover, Duncan complied, sitting back and watching.

He was mesmerized by the sight of two slick fingers slipping into that impossibly tight looking channel and pushing in, and out. Stretching. Preparing. Offering.

He sensed the change in his lover before it actually happened. He looked into Methos’ eyes the same moment that Methos lifted his head to watch him.

Through the corner of his eye he saw the slick fingers withdraw from the tight ring of muscles and the slick hand reached out to him. Without thought he took the oil-slicked hand and entwined their fingers together, feeling his own skin slide over the moistened one. 

There was something in Methos’s eyes. Something open and so vulnerable that made Duncan want to cradle him in his arms and shield him from everything bad in the world.

But he knew that wasn’t the time for it. He watched the silent invitation, the plea, in the golden eyes as Methos pushed two elegant fingers inside himself, still watching Duncan and silently telling him what to do with the dilation of his pupils and parting of swollen lips.

Slowly, giving Methos the time to prepare for what was going to happen, he traced Methos’s hand with his slick fingers, until he found the place where his digits disappeared into his body. Giving him a reassuring smile, he pressed slowly into the tight channel, along with Methos’ fingers.

Methos shuddered and gave a muffled scream when now four fingers breached him and his hips started bucking frantically. No words spilled from his mouth while his head thrashed around on the pillow, the tendons on his neck standing out and his face tensing in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

He didn’t say a word, nor did Methos as he began pushing his fingers in and out of the hot cavern of his lover’s body gently, stretching him nearly to his limits. The grip of the tight, now very slick channel on his fingers nearly drove him mad with the urge to just bury himself in what was willingly offered.

His self control began breaking. He needed to take him, to bury his own neglected cock into the incredible heat, to complete the bond between them.

Slowly, giving one of the pale thighs a soft kiss, he withdrew his fingers and then forced Methos to do the same, ignoring the incoherent whimper of protest.

The mere sight of their fingers leaving the tight opening made something inside him tighten even more, beyond any endurance. It was one of the most intimate gestures, signs of trust he was ever blessed with.

Duncan stretched over Methos, making sure that as much of his body brushed over the heated flesh of the other Immortal while he reached for the warmer on the bedside table. He dipped his fingers into the bowl, taking a generous amount of the slick substance before returning to his original position between Methos’s legs.

Mac bent to kiss the hard, heaving stomach of his lover, murmuring soft Gaelic words of love and praise when his lover’s agile hands came to caress his scalp. He coated his erection as quickly as possible, not trusting himself to stop from coming.

He needed control, but felt as if he was going to explode after the first touch.

“Methos…” God it was so hard to talk, to hard for a coherent thought, but he needed to ask, needed to be sure. Because once they taken this step, there would be no return.

“I want it… hurry…” Came the surprisingly soft, but urgent reply.

Nodding against Methos’ belly, Duncan shifted, positioned himself at the slick, tight entrance to his body and pushed.

The long sigh that left Methos’ lips was completely drowned in his own, louder one when he forced inch by painfully slow inch of his aching member into Methos’s body.

The hot channel closed over him, squeezing, nearly pulling him inside. It was nearly impossible to stay in control, not to let his body control his actions. But he would not hurt Methos. Not now not ever. When he was finally fully seated inside, he paused, giving Methos time to get used to the large invasion.

When he felt the body beneath him relax a little, he withdrew and paused, seeking Methos’ eyes with his and when their stars were fixed on each other, he slammed home with one powerful thrust forcing a scream out of the older Immortal.

He bent down and kissed Methos, forcing him to share his breath with him, like the night before, swallowing all of the sounds he was making when Duncan started flexing his hips and pushing his erection into him slow and deep, still careful enough not to hurt him. 

His hand closed over the sensitive organ on his lover and started fisting him to the rhythm of his thrusts. He angled his hips so that his cock was brushing Methos’ prostate, or so he hoped, with each and every thrust forcing him to scream and cry in pleasure and frustration. 

Methos caught fistfuls of his hair and pulled his mouth roughly down for a bruising, desperate kiss. Their tongues entwined, teeth scraping until he felt the copper taste of blood, but ignored it as well as Methos.

The way Methos’ body clenched and thrashed under him, straining towards the release, the way that rich expanse of pale skin flushed with desire as it was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, finally pushed him over the edge, much sooner than he wanted; needing this to last for all eternity and desperation for release at the same time, and with a hoarse scream he came.

Methos arched his spine unbelievably, feeling the hot splashes of his lover’s release inside him, his sword calloused hand fisting him furiously and with an equally hoarse scream he came also, all over Duncan’s hand and his belly.

The room was silent, filled with the warm, relaxing scents of the candles burning and the warmed, floral oil when Duncan came back to himself.

He was lying on top of his lover, his head pillowed on the smooth, almost hairless chest and the sound of the steady heartbeat was lulling him back to sleep.

Somewhere along the way, he had slipped out of Methos’s body and now was laying comfortably tucked beside him. Before he managed to gather his thoughts enough to speak, he became aware of the gentle hand stroking his hair in slow, soothing motions. 

“Sleep Highlander. Everything is well…“

The gentle voice and steady heartbeat along with the warmth of the blanket were sending him into the land of sleep and he managed to whisper half consciously before he fell asleep again the only words that mattered to him:

“You’re mine… never let you go…” Then the sleep claimed him.

Methos lay awake for a long time afterwards, stroking the silky mass of hair that crowned his lover; wondering what he had gotten himself into. 

He never expected it to be so… meaningful. He never knew that the seemingly gentle, almost naïve Highlander child could have so much raw power inside. That he would demand all or nothing.

It wasn’t like him to open himself so much. He was always keeping to himself, staying on the outside. Never quite here, never quite experiencing life.

Until the chivalrous warrior came and changed him from the inside, somehow drawing him from the seclusion he knew was safety, into the bright light of day.

He wondered how much the man would make him suffer in the future, and how much happiness Mac could give him by simply being in his life.

He fell asleep to the warmth of his new lover’s body.

That night he had no dreams.

tbc


	26. Chapter 26

Epilogue

Methos woke up to an empty bed. After the first moment of confusion, he remembered the Highlander trying to wake him up at some ungodly hour to run. Run! He was a human being, not a dog that needed to be walked three times a day!

After making sure Duncan knew what he thought about the idea of getting up so early in the morning, running and about all the morning people and their twisted hobbies, he turned don the other side and went to sleep again.

He froze in mid stretch when he remembered his dream.

Actually it wasn’t a dream. It was a flashback but different from the previous ones. There was no pain, no fear in it… it wasn’t torture. Just a memory…

*

He was standing in the cave, the small stone gripped firmly in his hand. He couldn’t believe that nothing happened. That he could just go up there and take it in his hand, while others died.

Then the air around him became warm and fragrant with salt and something he couldn’t define… maybe the sea…

He watched, mesmerized as the stone started glowing softly. The carving in the center was heating faster than the rest of the stone. He wanted to move, to let go of the stone before it scorched his flesh, but something kept him frozen, captivated by the myriad of colors that seemed to pulse and swirl just under the smooth, gray surface.

The air in the cave moved, a breeze from nowhere moved his long, heavy braid and cooled his heated skin. He watched in terrified silence as tiny parts of the small stone started falling off of it and changed into dust under the gentle assault of the warm, humid breeze. 

In a matter of seconds the item lost half of its weight and was disappearing even when he watched it. Only the carving in the middle glowed more strongly, giving the cave a golden glow.

After only few more heartbeats, there was nothing except for a few golden threads of light arranged into the shape of the rune floating a few inches above his palm.

As he watched, the lines of light moved, changed and finally settled into a completely new design. It wasn’t any sign or writing he had ever seen. It had at least several dimensions and was complicated, even too complicated for a simple human to understand. 

He watched in awed silence laced with fear as the threads of light descended slowly on his palm, not hurting him. He barely felt the faint warmth emanating from the bright lines when suddenly they glowed so hard, they nearly blinded him and he watched as it sank INTO his hand. He could actually see them glowing beneath the skin of his palm and then even that faded, leaving no trace of the stone nor the extraordinary happenings.

The breeze was still blowing and he started suddenly, realizing that something or maybe someone was watching him. He looked around, but saw nothing more than an empty cave.

“What is this…?” He asked tentatively, not sure if it happened for real or if it was just an illusion of his tired mind.

“It is the key.”

He started at the hollow, ageless and genderless voice.

“A key to what?”

There was a long, long silence and the breeze started disappearing. Along with the last humid movement of air came the reply:

“A key to death.”

*

Methos blinked at the light seeping through the curtains and tried to banish the memory of his dream from his mind.

Absently rubbing his palm where in the dream the strange sign had disappeared, he got up and headed for the shower.

It was too unreal even for him. It was probably only the effect of thinking about it so much. After all, he was nearly killed because of his inability to remember what happened in that damned cave. It was only logical that his mind offered him a solution - a fantastic, illogical vision.

Leaving both the memory and the uneasiness it awoke in him behind, he decided to go and find his lover.

If there was one thing the Highlander was good at, it was making him forget about everything besides him.

After a quick shower, he used both the link and the sense of Presence to track Duncan down.

He expected some kind of weirdness, uneasiness typical to the ‘morning after’ but nothing like that happened. There were no regrets, no buts about the night before. It wasn’t what he expected, but he decided to go with the flow, decided to trust Duncan.

He knew that his unusual willingness had much to do with the way he was taken with the warrior, but he refused to think dark thoughts this morning. He had enough of them over the last weeks.

Now he concentrated on the pleasurable fluttering in his stomach while he approached the spacious room he wanted to turn into gym, though he had gotten sidetracked by his… illness.

He entered the room and stopped suddenly. The sight that greeted him was a fantasy come true.

If Duncan noticed him, he didn’t let it show. 

Dressed only in the all-too-familiar black, silk kata pants, Duncan was training.

His body swayed and shifted from one complicated position to another in one fluid, graceful movement. His eyes were closed, hair pulled back and forehead and chest gleaming with a fine sheath of sweat. 

There was perfection and talent in those moves. Mesmerized, Methos watched as the white hilted katana in his lover’s hands moved faster and faster until the steel blade started blurring in the air. With his breath catching, he watched Mac speed up his movements well above human boundaries and he shivered, feeling the other Immortals Presence intensified by any passing minute.

He realized that MacLeod had to take an awful lot of heads to be able to force his body into that deadly, extraordinary dance. He watched half terrified, half aroused by the sight of arms moving so fast that the blurred before his eyes, movements so quick and so sure that his eyes were no longer able to follow them.

And it lasted. Not a minute or two, but half an hour of training that would KILL even another immortal. 

He watched with fascination as the movements became more and more normal, slower and finally Mac came to his cooling routine. His body was literally dripping with sweat, his hair had escaped the ponytail and was now hanging in loose, sweat dampened streaks around his face and falling on heaving shoulders.

Watching as with closed eyes, MacLeod finished his training. Methos for the first time, realized just how dangerous his lover was. The fact that he was gentle in nature, a caring ‘boy scout’ only hid this darker side of him.

He wondered how many of his friends realized that somewhere deep inside, where only primal urges existed, Mac was the same as any other Immortal.

He was a killer. 

However he was far, far more dangerous than the others. And that danger, that potential to darkness that only spoke louder about the goodness of this man that resisted the temptation, was drawing Methos stronger than anything else to him.

“Hi.” Duncan called softly, reaching for the soft cloth and cleaning his katana, before toweling his chest dry and approaching Methos whose throat had suddenly turned dry.

“It was quite a display.” Methos praised him, his voice a little too husky to sound casual.

He also saw the immediate response in Duncan. The change in breathing and the dilation of his pupils. Oh yes, they were definitely on the same wavelength.

Duncan shook his head and blinked the sudden lust away. He came even closer to Methos and pulled him into a soft kind of ‘good morning’ kiss.

Methos did his best to change the other man’s attitude, but Duncan pulled back.

“How are you?” Asked Duncan with ill concealed concern.

Methos narrowed his eyes suspiciously

“Why are you asking?”

Duncan looked at him for a long, tense moment before smiling gently, trying to ease the other man’s fear.

Maybe Methos pledged his trust to Duncan the night before, but they still had a long way ahead.

“You had a dream this morning” Stated the Highlander softly.

His first instinct was to deny, to obfuscate… but then he remembered what he promised the night before. Not with words, but with his body.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

He expected question, interrogation, insisting… not this soft inquiry.

“No… not now.” He gentled his rebuke still wary of Duncan’s reaction and again taken aback by the soft, understanding smile.

“Just remember you can always talk to me, okay? Don’t shut me out.”

Methos looked into the gentle, brown eyes and nodded, his heart strangely constricted.

“Come… I really need a shower.”

Methos wrinkled his nose exaggeratedly.

“Yes, you definitely do.”

* * *

The warm water was pounding on their backs while they leaned on the wall, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through their bodies.

“Methos…” Duncan called softly, watching his lover’s relaxed face.

“Hmmm?”

“Will you come with me to Seacouver?” He asked, uncertain if he was pushing too much, too fast.

The golden-green eyes opened and locked with his for a long, breathless moment before Methos smiled and answered softly:

“Yes.”

Such a short simple answer, and it meant so much.

“Thank you.” He pulled the leaner man into his arms and held him for a long, long moment. “No matter what haunts you Methos… you are no longer alone.” He whispered into the tender skin of other man’s neck. 

“I know Duncan. I know.”

The END


End file.
